


Let's Do It

by The Last Good Name (thelastgoodname)



Category: Glee
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/F, Toys, autoerotic asphyxia, breath play, hypoxyphilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastgoodname/pseuds/The%20Last%20Good%20Name
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the right thing to do, helping out a friend. Even if Quinn's realizing she's pretty sure she doesn't want to be Rachel's friend.  </p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Do It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Faberry Week 2013 for the prompt "friends with benefits."
> 
> No, that's actually a lie: it was started for a prompt at the Glee kink meme, which explains the excessive amount of sex involved.

It’s Nationals, it’s New York, it’s fame and lights and noise and Quinn’s never been so excited in her entire life. Her mom’s here, too, to watch them perform, and even though their relationship is still rocky—even though Quinn spends more time with the Joneses than she does at her mom’s house—her mom is here, and Quinn’s floating on air because they’re in _New York_ and they’re at _Nationals_ and tomorrow they’re going to blow everyone’s socks off.

Quinn blasts open the door to their hotel room, determined to grab her sweater and get back downstairs stat to meet up with her mom and Mercedes and Kurt and take Manhattan by storm. They’re all waiting impatiently for her and she’s halfway through her suitcase, tossing things around and muttering to herself about her poor packing habits when she realizes that there’s someone else in the room with her. Someone who is not Mercedes, waiting downstairs for Quinn to return.

Someone who is obviously Rachel.

Quinn turns around.

Rachel is supposed to be with Tina and Mike and Artie at a concert already; Quinn saw them leave. That’s what she told Quinn, anyway. But now, looking at her, Quinn imagines she told Tina that she was going to be with Quinn and Mercedes, and with everyone thinking she was somewhere else, Rachel was going to be here, in the hotel room, doing—

Quinn is across the room in an instant, untying the belt around Rachel’s neck and wrapping her arms around her. Rachel’s eyes are bulging and her lips are almost purple. The lack of air is causing her to make horrible little sounds that make Quinn’s stomach twist.

“What are you—” Quinn starts to ask, and then she hears it.

Something is buzzing. Something in between Rachel’s legs is buzzing. Before she can stop herself, Quinn looks down.

She knew Rachel was naked; she had seen that much when she turned around. But she was so scared by the belt and the choking sounds that she hadn’t really registered anything else.

Now she does.

Rachel is naked on the bed, and there is something buzzing in between her legs.

Quinn meets Rachel’s eyes.

Or rather, she tries to meet Rachel’s eyes, but Rachel isn’t looking at her. Rachel is still making little choking sounds, but they’re different than the ones from before. They sounds like the ones Quinn makes when she’s alone in her room late at night.

And then Rachel is shuddering and moaning and her eyes roll back in her head and she collapses on to Quinn, who is still sitting next to Rachel with Rachel’s belt in her hands.

_Holy sweet Jesus._

Eventually, Rachel stops shaking.

Quinn can’t move either, so they just sit there for a while, silent.

For a long while, actually. Quinn has no idea how much time has passed when her phone starts to ring. Her purse is all the way across the room, next to her suitcase, but she’s not sure she wants to get up—she’s not sure she can get up, and not just because Rachel is practically on top of her, panting and flushed and still naked.

The phone stops ringing.

Two seconds later, it starts again, and Quinn remembers suddenly that Mercedes is staying in their room, too. Mercedes has a key.

She lunges off the bed, leaving Rachel in a heap, and manages to pick up just before Mercedes’ call goes to voicemail again.

She has no idea what she says, what lie she comes up with. All she knows is that she can’t go out with them and leave Rachel here. Alone, with the belt.

Whatever she comes up with must sound likely, though, because Mercedes accepts it, and even though she passes the phone over to her mom, she accepts the lie, too, and they tell Quinn that it’s fine and they’ll see her later.

All Quinn can think is that it’s not fine. Not at all.

She hangs up, drops the phone in her suitcase, and wonders what to do now. Rachel is curled up in a ball on top of the bed, clutching the covers tightly. Quinn starts back over to her, and then realizes she still has the damn belt in her hand. She’s not putting it anywhere near Rachel, so she tosses it in her suitcase, too, and climbs back on to the bed. She’s not sure if she should touch Rachel or what, especially since she can still hear the buzzing.

Rachel doesn’t seem to notice the vibrator—because that’s what it has to be, right?—or Quinn, because she’s not moving except for her heaving chest and her hand rhythmically clenching at the blanket.

“Rachel?” says Quinn softly, leaning over her.

Rachel doesn’t look up.

“Rach, sweetie, you need to talk to me.”

Rachel is still silent, and now Quinn’s starting to get worried. Rachel’s never silent like this; even when she’s not talking her very presence is loud with energy. But this not responding thing is scaring Quinn. She’s watched enough CSI to know what suffocation can do, even if it doesn’t kill a person. It can kill brain cells, cause irreparable damage. The thought that Rachel might be damaged—that there might be something wrong with her that can never be fixed—rips through Quinn and she hunches down and grabs Rachel’s face forcing her to meet Quinn’s eyes.

“Look at me,” she demands.

Rachel’s eyes are glazed, and her face is trembling. Except that it’s Quinn’s hands that are shaking, not Rachel’s face, and that damn vibrator is still buzzing and Quinn can’t stand it any more and digs her hand in between Rachel’s legs and yanks it out.

“No,” Rachel whimpers, but Quinn isn’t paying attention, because the thing she is now holding is 1) huge, and 2) soaking wet. It’s actually making a wet spot on the blanket. _Rachel_ is making a wet spot on the blanket. The dildo is still vibrating in her hand, and Quinn scrambles to find the off-switch.

Once she does, she tosses it to the end of the bed and only then does she look back at Rachel.

Rachel’s eyes are fixed on Quinn, but Quinn can’t figure out the look on her face. She looks lost, mostly. Maybe a little scared, but that might just be Quinn. Kind of blank, like there’s nothing going on in her head. The fear tugs at Quinn again, and she slides her arms around Rachel carefully.

“Sweetie?” she says. “Are you okay?”

“Please.”

That’s not really an answer. “Rachel, what are you—what’s going on?”

“Please,” Rachel says again, just as softly, and rolls over. Her chest is still heaving, and much to Quinn’s chagrin, that means so are her breasts. Quinn is now much more sympathetic to Finn’s problems—and even to Puck’s leering—because Rachel’s bare breasts are amazing, going up and down like that. They’re practically alien, moving independently and swaying and jiggling just a little bit, and they’re _right in front of her face_.

Also: nipples. Rachel’s nipples are right there, too, large and defined and sticking up like little beacons. Beacons that are calling Quinn’s attention, and oh dear lord, if Rachel notices Quinn’s stare, she’s going to flip. Or mock. Mock heavily, and that would be bad. So very, very bad.

Quinn reluctantly pulls her eyes up to steal a glance at Rachel’s face, and relief floods through her: Rachel’s still staring vacantly into space, still looking a little lost. She hasn’t noticed. In fact, Quinn’s not sure Rachel even knows there’s anyone else in the room with her.

“Please,” Rachel says again, and bites her lip. “Quinn, please." No, not says: Rachel begs. She’s panting, and begging, her voice barely there and so very needy, and there goes the idea that Rachel is so out of it she doesn’t know Quinn’s there.

Rachel’s begging. For what? “Rach?"

“Please,” Rachel pleads, and her fingers twitch again.

Quinn frowns in confusion and reaches out to capture Rachel’s questing hands. “What do you need, sweetie?”

“Fuck me," Rachel growls, and without warning, her fingernails are digging into Quinn’s hands and there’s fire behind her eyes as she stares at Quinn. “ _Please._ ”

Oh.

_Oh._

Quinn reflexively glances to the end of the bed, to where the dildo is silently laying.

"Quinn,” pleads Rachel, and she whips her head back up to Rachel. Rachel’s face is twisted, now, contorted in what looks like pain, and her entire body is taut. Her pants are getting faster now, and if Quinn weren’t so worried about the after-effects of the choking, she’d be worried that Rachel was going to hyperventilate. “Please,” Rachel says again.

Quinn takes a deep breath, and slowly detaches one hand from Rachel’s death grip; as soon as she lets go, Rachel’s fingers clutch air, spasming as if they have a life of their own. It takes all her reach to hold on to Rachel’s hand while grabbing the dildo, and for a brief, mortifying moment, she thinks that it might slip out of her grasp and on to the floor. But she manages to wrap her hand around the thing, valiantly ignoring how slick it feels, and brings it up to Rachel.

Rachel is watching her with those huge eyes, not blinking at all, and there’s something utterly trusting about her right now. She trusts Quinn to take care of her.

Quinn’s not sure what to make of that.

“Okay,” says Quinn, and tries to get a grip on the dildo. It’s incredibly slippery, and Quinn knows she’s never been this wet, this aroused. What was Rachel doing that got herself this worked up? She’s already come at least once, Quinn knows that much, but she’s still panting and whimpering and her skin is so very hot when the back of Quinn’s hand brushes against Rachel’s thigh.

And then Rachel is spreading herself open, so open and the flesh in between her legs is shockingly pink and slick. Quinn hasn’t even touched her yet and she can feel the heat Rachel is throwing off. Rachel is burning up, and she sounds like she’s dying. Like she’s going to die if Quinn doesn’t—doesn’t—

Quinn has no idea what she’s supposed to do. Stick the dildo back in her, probably.

So she does.

It goes in with a slurping sound that makes Quinn wince, but Rachel just juts her hips down, forcing the thing further and further into her. It’s huge, and Quinn’s not sure how much Rachel can take, but evidently she can take the whole thing, because once it’s settled back inside her, Rachel starts pumping her hips like mad except there’s nothing for her to move against.

It actually looks really weird. Rachel’s got her legs spread and she’s flailing and thrusting and making all these little desperate sounds because she’s not getting any closer to another orgasm, and Quinn can’t drag her eyes away and all she can think is that she really is a complete failure at sex.

“Please.” She’s still got that look on her face. That trusting look, as if Quinn can make everything better. As if Quinn can give her what she needs.

“Okay,” says Quinn. “Okay.” And she takes a deep breath.

That was a mistake: the room reeks of sex—of _Rachel_ —and now it’s all Quinn can smell. It’s hot and thick, slightly acrid, but it goes straight to Quinn’s head and she wants more. Now. It’s like a drug, it must be, like those God-damned wine coolers, because Quinn’s following her nose and before she knows it, she’s got her head in between Rachel’s legs and she’s sniffing like it’s glue.

Not in-between in between; there’s still a good foot of space between the heavenly smell that’s wafting out of Rachel and Quinn’s face, but it’s entirely too close and at the same time not close enough. Quinn’s been good, she’s been so good since Beth was born. She hasn’t done anything bad, hasn’t gotten drunk or made any mistakes and she’s tried so hard to be the person she’s supposed to be. To be good.

But that smell. It’s not fair, and it totally figures that Rachel’s vagina is a drug. It certainly explains Jesse and Finn and Puck. And it’s the only explanation for what Quinn does next.

She grabs the end of the dildo and pulls it out.

“No!” Rachel says, and tries to follow the dildo, sliding down the bed. Sliding closer to Quinn. But Quinn wraps her free arm around Rachel’s hips to hold her in place, and then, just when the toy is almost entirely out of Rachel—just when Rachel is about to throw a fit equal to any New York has ever seen—Quinn flips it back on and slides it in. Shoves, really, and for a second she’s worried that she’s being too rough but as soon as hit hits home Rachel wails and it sounds so good, so happy, Quinn immediately pulls the thing out and shoves it in again. It’s a little weird, since she still has no idea what’s she’s doing, but Rachel is babbling and saying yes and she’s leaking out around the dildo and making a huge mess and thrashing around so much that if she were any bigger Quinn’d have a hard time holding her still. She’s still moving a lot more than Quinn would like, but she’s spread wide open and Quinn can see everything. Her fingers are slippery, and so is everything else and she can’t get a good rhythm going but Rachel doesn’t seem to care and it’s amazing.

Quinn is transfixed. She can’t look away. She gets so distracted that a couple of times they get all mixed up entirely: Quinn doesn’t pull it out far enough, or push it in hard enough, or the buzzing little nub misses Rachel’s clit and bangs into some other little fold of flesh, but Rachel doesn’t seem to mind. She looks completely over the moon no matter how many times Quinn messes up.

And then suddenly Rachel’s making those sounds again, the ones that mean she’s about to come, and before Quinn can figure out if she’s supposed to do anything more to help, Rachel’s eyes are rolling back again and after an eternity of watching Rachel pulse around the thing—watching Rachel’s vagina as she comes—the tension leaves Rachel completely and she collapses back on to the bed.

Quinn is left between Rachel’s legs holding a buzzing plastic sex toy.

Just like before, it takes Quinn a little while to get her brain back on track and pull the toy out again. Rachel doesn’t say anything, and when Quinn finally pulls her attention away from the wonder that is between Rachel’s legs and looks up at her, Rachel’s eyes are closed and she’s passed out.

“Well, that’s good,” Quinn mumbles, and uncurls her body. It can’t have even been ten minutes, but even so, her position nestled in between Rachel’s legs necessitated some pretty weird contortions that have left an ache in most of Quinn’s limbs. Only there’s an ache in between her legs, too, so it probably wasn’t just the hunching over.

She limps to the bathroom, and flicks the light on. It’s bright and kind of unflinching, not to mention unflattering, and Quinn just stares at her reflection for a while.

She thinks she should look different, more mature, or sluttier, or something. Different. She just got another girl off. A girl she doesn’t even like that much, but maybe she was good at it, seeing as how the girl in question immediately passed out as soon as she was done.

Unfortunately, the Quinn in the mirror just looks confused. She sighs and reaches out to turn on the water and wash her hands. Her fingers are shiny from Rachel, and she can still smell her, like Rachel’s embedded in her nostrils or something, and without quite realizing what she’s doing, Quinn’s got her hand up to her mouth and she’s sniffing. Quinn kind of wants to inhale that amazing scent for the rest of her life, and then suddenly there are long sweeps of her own tongue across her hand, on her thumb and her palm and her fingers and Holy sweet Mother of Christ Rachel tastes even better than she smells.

Quinn’s got her finger stuck practically down her own throat by the time she registers what she’s doing and by then it’s too late to pretend anything different. She’s sucking on her fingers like her life depends on it and she wants more than anything not to be in danger of running out. Not ever. She feels like she’s consuming Rachel, and it’s good. So good. Quinn’s clenching her thighs together and lapping at her own fingers and oh God, she’s so tense and she wants and wants and her other hand slides up the front of her skirt and creeps across her underwear and she’s going to—

There’s a snuffling sound from the other room. To Quinn’s shock she realizes that she forgot to close the door. She was just about to—and the door was open—she was going to—in front of _Rachel_.

This is not good.

None of this is good.

This is very bad.

She takes three deep breaths, ignoring the lingering scents in the bathroom—it’s her and Rachel combined, now, and that’s even better—and she can’t think about this. At all. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

Rachel snuffles again and Quinn violently turns the hot water on and scrubs at her hands. Her skin goes bright red almost immediately.

When she’s done, she makes her way into the room again, and just for a minute lets herself be overtaken by the image of Rachel curled up around a pillow in the middle of the bed, all that rich smooth skin on display in the low lamplight.

She’s gorgeous.

Quinn sighs and forces down the unease of going through Rachel’s suitcase looking for her pajamas. Part of her thinks it’s ridiculous—she’s made Rachel orgasm; why in the world should she be so uncomfortable dealing with her clothes?—but most of her is completely consumed with disquiet at the entire thing. It’s not just the sex, or sort of sex, or even the belt. It’s everything, the fact that she’s so aroused, and that Rachel was so aroused, that Rachel asked Quinn to help and Quinn did.

And the belt. She’d forgotten about the belt, what with Rachel, and the toy, and that overwhelming smell of ambrosia. Nirvana. Heaven. Something. Quinn glares at the belt, still sitting on top of her suitcase. She is going to hell.

And tomorrow morning, she’s supposed to stand up in front of 5,000 people and sing and dance not think about any of this.

Fat chance.

She finally finds what she’s looking for, and she smiles that there is a pair of red silk pajamas waiting for Rachel. Leave it to Rachel to actually wear real adult pjs instead of an old t-shirt and Hello Kitty soft pants like everyone else in the world, especially after an evening of sexual debauchery.

“Hey, Rachel,” Quinn says, and nudges her. Rachel makes another one of those adorable snuffling sounds, and things are just getting worse and worse for Quinn. Rachel is sexy, maybe. Gorgeous, sure. But adorable? Quinn winces, and shakes Rachel’s shoulder harder. “Wake up. You need to put your pajamas on before Mercedes and everyone get back.”

Instead of waking up, Rachel rolls over. And now Quinn’s got a face full of Rachel’s breasts again.

She tries, she really does try as hard as she can to be considerate and not be Puck, but it still takes a few minutes to get herself back on track and stop ogling.

The third time is no charm, so Quinn takes a deep breath to steady herself and that was completely the wrong move. Because the room still reeks of sex, of Rachel, and Quinn thinks maybe she can even smell herself a little and Rachel tasted so very good and now she’s facing Quinn again and the source of that wonderful taste is right there and Quinn’s licking her lips and practically salivating at the thought of tasting Rachel again. Going straight to the source, this time.

Not good at all.

It takes ten minutes to get Rachel’s pajamas on her uncooperative body, and by the end Quinn’s trembling and her stomach is in knots and she’s about to jump out of her skin and she wants so badly, more than she’s ever wanted anything in her entire life. She’s not quite sure what she wants, but she knows that she’s throbbing for more and for Rachel and for more Rachel and it’s nearly impossible to hold herself back.

But Rachel’s asleep, and Quinn’s never been very good at doing it herself. Santana claims it’s because Quinn’s too repressed to do it right, which used to be funny until she randomly decided one day six hundred miles from home that girls turn her on. That Rachel turns her on. Maybe she really is repressed. So instead of taking care of herself, Quinn heads back to the bathroom and climbs into the shower and turns the water on as hot as she can stand and tries to burn out all the lust.

It doesn’t work at all, but she feels a little better when she gets out of the shower 45 minutes later, and she’s infinitely more capable of dealing with the fact that she left the vibrator laying at the end of the bed, still a little slippery and slick. She washes it off, hoping that hand soap isn’t going to cause any damage, and is very careful not to get any water into the battery casing. Somehow, putting Rachel’s sex toy back into her suitcase feels a lot less intimate than getting her pajamas out of it, but Quinn’s not going to think about that.

The belt stays in Quinn’s suitcase. She’s not thinking about that, either.

She’s not thinking about a lot of things right now.

Two hours later, Quinn’s hasn’t gotten more than five pages into her book because she keeps looking over to watch Rachel sleep—not that it’s extremely creepy or anything—when the door opens and Mercedes spills in.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey, back. Have fun?”

“Yeah.” There’s a strange look on Mercedes’ face, but Quinn’s too tired to figure it out. Mercedes says, “It was weird, to be out with your mom without you, but we had a good time.”

“Kurt behave himself?”

Mercedes laughs, which almost certainly means no. She leaves the bathroom door open while she brushes her teeth, so she can tell Quinn all about the amazing night out that she missed. Quinn makes all the right noises, but she can’t quite feel bad that she skipped going with them. She also can’t imagine that she missed anything better than what she spent her evening doing.

Mercedes is ready for bed and is standing by the empty bed staring at Quinn when she realizes that the strangeness is because Mercedes is upset. And then Mercedes confirms it. “I thought we agreed that Tina would be sharing with Rachel?”

There’s no good answer to this question. They had agreed that Quinn and Mercedes would be sharing and Tina got the short straw with Rachel. But Quinn’s not going to let anyone else near Rachel tonight, not even Tina. Not after…. And that’s another thing she’s not really prepared to deal with right now.

Quinn shrugs. “It’s okay. We can switch again tomorrow.”

The look on Mercedes’ face says that it is clearly not okay. Part of Quinn wants to confess everything, even though she has no idea what confessing “everything” would entail. Her newfound appreciation of the female form, or the part where she got Rachel off and didn’t get the favor returned? So instead Quinn just smiles apologetically at Mercedes and shrugs again.

Mercedes shakes her head, knowing that Quinn is not telling her something but accepting it anyway, and settles herself down to go to sleep. Quinn has wonderful friends; hopefully they will stay wonderful as she tries to figure this whole thing out.

Quinn waits a few minutes, to see if Mercedes wants to talk, but the room stays silent and eventually she goes back to her book.

~~~

Unsurprisingly, Rachel is the first one up the next morning.

Quinn wakes up when Rachel throws back the covers, but she’s still not ready to face any of the things that happened last night, so she keeps her eyes closed and feigns sleep.

Rachel sings in the shower, and hums while getting dressed, and twirls around the room instead of walking like a normal person. Quinn peers out at her from under the covers. It should be annoying. It is annoying. It’s also very cute.

Tina’s the next one to get up and head for the shower, but Quinn just waits, prolonging the start to her day. The bed is warm and cozy, and she can still smell Rachel a little. Not so much the scent of sex-Rachel but the way she smells everyday, sort of pleasant and peachy. It’s probably her shampoo.

Quinn is on her back, staring at the ceiling and wondering when her life became a soap opera when Mercedes asks Rachel possibly the most terrifying question that has ever been given breath.

“Are you feeling better, Rachel?” Mercedes asks.

Rachel stares at her, complete confusion written all over her face. “Better about what?”

Mercedes’ brow furrows. “Quinn said you weren’t feeling very good last night, that she was going to stay with you to make sure you were ready for today.”

Rachel turns to Quinn, clearly expecting an explanation.

Quinn really just wants to keep looking at the ceiling, but that’s not very polite. So she rolls over and props her head on her hand, and doesn’t quite meet Rachel’s eyes. “You weren’t in any shape to be left alone last night, Rachel.” She says a little prayer that Rachel gets the hint and lets it go.

Rachel searches Quinn’s face for something that Quinn really hopes she doesn’t find before obviously deciding to let it go and turning the force of her brilliant smile on Mercedes. “I feel excellent. I had a lovely evening, and a good night’s sleep, and I just know today is going to be a wonderful day.”

Quinn snorts before she can stop herself, and blatantly ignores both Rachel’s and Mercedes’ curious looks as she gets up and grabs her clothes. “I’m going to see if anyone else is awake.”

Padding through the hallway in her pajamas is preferable to waiting around to see what Rachel says next. A lovely evening would not be how Quinn would describe it. Besides, maybe she can catch Santana and Brittany in the act and get some pointers, now that she’s discovered that she might need them.

~~~

They don’t win.

They don’t even place.

There are twelve teams participating, and seven of them are judged better than New Directions from Lima, OH. The top three get to compete again tomorrow, to see who is going to be the national champion. Of those judged better, none are Vocal Adrenaline, who didn’t even make it to New York this year. Somehow, that doesn’t really ease the sting.

But still: they are one of the top ten best show choirs in the country. That’s pretty good.

~~~

Afterwards, Mr. Schue makes them all go out to dinner together. Everyone is still vibrating with excitement from their performance, non-winning thought it might have been, and the conversation is loud and chaotic. For once, Rachel’s not the only person talking a mile a minute. From there, they decide as a group to go to the same club Kurt and Mercedes had found the night before, which is all-ages and gay friendly and has a stage. Because for some reason, they all feel like singing again. Before that, though, they need to go back to the hotel to get ready.

When they get back to the room the first thing Rachel says is, “Where’s my belt?”

Quinn stares at her in disbelief: she sounds completely innocent. Quinn wonders what else Rachel is hiding behind that virginal façade.

Mercedes mumbles, “Haven’t seen it,” and disappears into the bathroom.

Tina shrugs. “No idea.” She starts re-doing her makeup in the mirror next to the TV.

Quinn tenses, waiting for Rachel to ask her where the belt is. Quinn can picture it in her suitcase: thin, black, leather, curled innocuously on top of her new yellow floral spring dress. She can also picture it back around Rachel’s neck, and that terrifying moment when she saw the belt and Rachel’s bugged out eyes and oh God those sounds. The sound of Rachel choking to death. She shivers.

“Quinn?” Rachel says.

She tries to answer, but nothing comes out. She’s been trying so hard all day not to think about the belt, about why the belt was around Rachel’s neck, that she can’t think of what to say now. “I—”

Rachel looks at her expectantly.

“What do you need it for?”

“Excuse me?”

Quinn squares her shoulders and gives Tina a glance. “What do you need it for?”

“To wear?”

The look on Quinn’s face must scream incredulity, because all of a sudden Rachel can’t meet her eyes, and she trips over the carpet backing up.

“Sorry,” Rachel says, and scrambles up off the floor. She freezes for a moment, conflicted, and then, before Quinn can move, she’s out the door.

Tina stares at her, but Quinn has no idea what to say or what to do. “Um,” she says.

Just then, Mercedes comes out of the bathroom. “Ready?”

“I think I’m going to wait for Rachel,” says Quinn slowly.

Mercedes gives her a look that says she still knows that something is going on, and Quinn’s not going to be able to keep putting her off. “Fine. Let’s go, T.”

Quinn winces; she’s going to have to explain to Mercedes at some point. Or come up with a really good lie. As soon as the door shuts behind them, Quinn collapses on to the bed. Rachel’s bed. Their bed.

Rachel doesn’t come back for a long time.

When the door does finally open, Quinn is still sitting on the edge of the bed staring into space.

"Um,” says Rachel.

Quinn looks up. She opens her mouth to speak, but the pauses. What, exactly, is she supposed to say?

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” says Rachel. “I mean, they were all waiting.”

“I told Mercedes I’d wait for you.”

Rachel nods. “I told Finn I was going to stay in tonight.”

“Tired?”

Rachel stares blankly at Quinn.

Suddenly, Quinn is angry. Furious, even. "Planning on having another quiet evening by yourself?”

“Quinn,” says Rachel softly.

“No!” snaps Quinn. “You tried to—you could have hurt yourself! What did you think you were doing?”

Rachel’s face is flaming. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Is that right?” Quinn stalks over to her suitcase and rips out the belt. She’s holding it so tight her knuckles are white, and she’s trembling again. Anger. It has to be anger. Not fear at all. “So you weren’t choking yourself last night?” Choking herself while masturbating, but Quinn’s not sure if she can say that part out loud.

“No! I wasn’t! How do you even know about that?” Rachel stares at the belt, eyes wide. She looks obsessed, intent, fascinated all at the same time. This is not an unusual look on Rachel.

And her chest is heaving a little bit. Quinn tears her eyes away with great effort. It doesn’t matter right now, because the images flash behind Quinn’s eyes. They’re distracting. Even though Rachel is still wearing her Nationals outfit, even though they’re both upset and maybe a little pissed, Quinn can see the flesh underneath Rachel’s clothes in her head, her toned skin and supple curves. She shouldn’t be thinking about that. At all. Especially not right now.

“I was there,” Quinn snarls. “I saw you, you were—you were—” Her hands are shaking, and she can’t stop them. She can’t stop hearing those sounds Rachel was making before she took the belt off. All she can hear is the roaring in her ears, and she whispers, “You could have hurt yourself, Rachel.”

She’s not angry anymore.

Rachel sinks down into one of the armchairs across from the bed and rests her arms on her knees. She’s not looking at Quinn, but Quinn can’t take her eyes off Rachel. There’s a flush covering Rachel’s chest, the part that she can see through Rachel’s hair.

“I saw you,” repeats Quinn. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong. And it’s none of your business!”

“I might have had to call 911, Rachel! We might have come back to the room to find you dead!”

“No,” says Rachel, her eyes boring into Quinn’s. “No.”

“Yes,” says Quinn. “You didn’t see—you—”

“That’s not what was happening. I wasn’t hurting myself.”

“You have a funny definition of not hurting yourself.”

One of Rachel’s shoulders twitches. It could be a shrug, or it could be an involuntary spasm; Quinn can’t tell.

“Why?” asks Quinn.

Rachel shrugs again.

“Tell me.” Quinn needs to know what’s going on in Rachel’s head. If she could just get Rachel to understand, to realize what it looked like to Quinn—what it actually was, no matter what Rachel thought it was.

“I—I didn’t know you were there. I didn’t know anyone was there,” Rachel says softly.

Quinn just glares.

Rachel tries again. “It’s none of your business.”

“I’m not giving you the belt.”

Rachel’s head jerks up.

“And I’m not letting you buy another one, either,” Quinn continues.

“How are you going to stop me?” She doesn’t sound defiant, just curious.

She also sounds aroused. Her voice is soft, slightly slurred, just it was last night when she kept saying please.

The sound goes straight through Quinn.

This is not fair. She shouldn’t be aroused by Rachel Berry, of all people. If she was suddenly going to go all lesbo, it should be for Santana. Mercedes. Hell, even Sue Sylvester, who is just as over-bearing and freaky as Rachel, but without the loser stamped all over her forehead.

“You want it,” Quinn says before she knows she’s opened her mouth.

Oops.

“You want the belt.”

Rachel nods, almost imperceptibly. It’s barely there, but Quinn sees it and now Rachel is committed, too. She’s admitted what she wants.

What Quinn wants is to never worry that Rachel is going to suffer brain damage ever again.

Only one of them is going to get what they want.

Quinn takes a deep breath. “Fine,” she says. “Fine.”

“Fine, what?" Rachel looks confused. It should not be as adorable as it is.

Instead of thinking about that, Quinn says, “You want it, you’re going to get it.”

Now Rachel looks utterly terrified. Quinn hasn’t seen that look on Rachel’s face in more than a year, and it makes her stomach twist in much the same way seeing Rachel choking herself made it twist. Determinedly setting the feeling aside, Quinn stalks over to Rachel’s suitcase and yanks it open. She hasn’t moved the toy, which makes Quinn ridiculously grateful. Maybe she can manage some sort of dignity while proposing this ludicrous, farcical, stupid—

She throws the toy on the bed in front of Rachel. “Here’s the deal. You want this, you tell me. I do it, not you. I’ll do whatever you want, but you can’t do it alone anymore. You could have killed yourself, Rachel.”

Rachel is staring at the vibrator like’s never seen one before.

“How did you know about that?” she says. Breathes, really, because Quinn can barely hear her.

“How did I know you had it?”

Rachel nods, just a tiny little bit. If Quinn weren’t paying such close attention—if Quinn hadn’t already spent so much time watching Rachel—she wouldn’t have seen it.

“Are you even listening to me? _I saw you._ I walked in here when you were in the middle of your little whatever, and I. Saw. You.”

Rachel whimpers. “I didn’t mean for you to know. I never meant for anyone to find out.”

“You didn’t know I was there?” The words hit Quinn like the time she and Finn fell off the couch, when he somehow landed on top of her and his elbow drove into her stomach and she couldn’t breathe for ten minutes.

She didn’t know.

Rachel shakes her head, her eyes still fixed on the vibrator.

Quinn keeps opening her mouth to speak but nothing comes out. She didn’t know. It’s agonizing, but Rachel doesn’t even notice because she’s too focused on the bed. “But you said my name,” Quinn whispers.

The blush that covers Rachel’s face is epic, but she doesn’t hesitate to explain. “I have a fairly potent imagination.” She doesn’t quite meet Quinn’s eyes. “I thought I was imagining things. People. I do that a lot. It’s amazing. I have hallucinations where everything is hyperreal. ”

Quinn is blushing pretty badly herself. “You said my name.”

“I was hallucinating!”

She doesn’t want to think about this. The only thing that made this little crush, or whatever, bearable was the idea that Rachel might reciprocate, and now it turns out Rachel was just using her to get off. Like Puck, or Finn, or any number of other boys at McKinley. Jacob Ben Israel. Quinn is not loser, or a victim, and she is not going to let it get to her. She is not going to cry that _Berry_ thinks she’s just another pretty face to think about on the way to an orgasm.

And she’s already too far down this path to backtrack anyway. “No, you weren’t,” she spits. “I was really there. And I’m going to be there from now on.”

Rachel flinches.

“Whether you like it or not, Berry,” Quinn says threateningly.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Quinn.”

“It’s a better idea than letting you choke yourself alone.”

Rachel stands up and takes a few steps forward. She’s standing right next to the bed, staring at the vibrator again, and Quinn has no idea what’s going to come out of Rachel’s mouth. She has no idea what she wants to come out of Rachel’s mouth.

“Why?” is not anywhere on her imagined list of responses, but that’s the one Rachel goes with.

“Why?” Quinn is completely confused.

Rachel turns to face Quinn. They’re practically in a stand-off: only a few feet apart and facing each other, nothing hidden, everything out there.

“Yes, Quinn. Why?”

Now there’s a question. Because Rachel smelled fantastic, and tasted better. Because the thought of never seeing her naked again feels like it would kill Quinn. Because the moment when she thought Rachel had done permanent damage almost did kill her. “Because it’s dangerous.” Close enough.

Rachel just stares at Quinn. Her gaze feels almost as hot as when Quinn touched her last night, except that can’t possibly be right. Quinn shouldn’t feel like Rachel is undressing her with her eyes; Rachel’s the one who’s going to end up undressed. When they do this. If they do this. Because for all of Quinn’s apparently fearless determination to get Rachel to agree to whatever it is they’re negotiating, most of her is terrified that Rachel will say yes. Will say, please, Quinn, choke me. And then what’s Quinn supposed to do?

Eventually, Rachel nods.

Quinn has no idea what that means, but she can’t gather enough courage to ask.

“It is dangerous, but not that dangerous,” says Rachel. “I’ve been practicing autoerotic asphyxiation it for quite some time, and I’ve never been in any danger of permanent damage.”

“How do you know?” Quinn shoots back.

Rachel looks surprised, as if this question had never occurred to her.

Quinn always knew Rachel was single-minded, but she’s never thought of her as stupid before. “How do you know you haven’t already killed millions of brain cells? Or done some other damage? It could hurt your vocal cords, Rachel, and then where would you be?”

“Don’t you think I know that,” Rachel says, so softly that Quinn almost can’t hear her.

Quinn freezes.

“I know,” repeats Rachel, still nearly inaudible. “But it feels—it feels like flying. Like being free.”

Quinn blinks.

_Being free._

That sounds incredibly appealing.

Not worrying anymore, not feeling chained to something, tied down to a life she doesn’t want but can’t escape.

Quinn’s always known that she wanted to escape her life, but it had never occurred to her Rachel’s own determination to get to Broadway was anything similar. Of course, Quinn’s drive results in being Head Cheerleader and impeccable grades, not in choking herself for kicks. But to each her own, or something like that.

“Flying, huh,” she says weakly, when it becomes obvious that Rachel wants to sink into the carpet and disappear. The last thing Quinn wants is to make Rachel feel ashamed by her desires. Quinn’s got enough of that going around for the both of them.

Quinn doesn’t want Rachel to regret sharing, either. Because whenever Rachel does say, please, Quinn, choke me, she’s going to do it. For Rachel. So Rachel can feel free. Can fly, for both of them.

~~~

Quinn keeps the belt.

Rachel doesn’t ask for it back.

Rachel doesn’t ask Quinn anything.

Quinn didn’t think she would, but they had agreed, sort of, and Rachel shouldn’t go back on her word like that. The fact that Quinn’s been dreaming about Rachel’s legs spread open and her breasts heaving and the curve of her neck is besides the point: if Rachel is choking herself alone, that’s against the rules and Quinn’s not going to let her get away with it. She’s just not sure how to tell Rachel that.

And then, out of the blue, Rachel shows up at Quinn’s mom’s house. They stare at each other across the threshold for a moment.

“I stopped by Mercedes’ house and she indicated you were here,” Rachel says stiffly.

Quinn nods.

She should probably invite Rachel in, but now that the moment is here, Quinn’s not sure even the promise of naked Rachel is enough to get her to pull out that belt.

It’s been hanging in her closet and she sees it everyday.

She’s tried not looking at it, but that doesn’t work. She’s tried not touching it; that doesn’t work, either. Somehow, over the last few weeks, she’s become intimately familiar with the feel of Rachel’s belt, the soft leather unyielding and supple at the same time. Like Rachel’s body, curled up against Quinn. She’s run her fingers across it over and over, wondering what it would feel like twined in her hands against Rachel’s neck. It’s not that she wants to hurt Rachel, it’s more that she wants to know what Rachel feels like under her hands. What Rachel feels like coming apart, because of Quinn. For Quinn.

Not that it would be for Quinn, or even because of Quinn. She knows that. She’s done some reading, about what Rachel likes and why someone would like that. It’s an addiction, and if Quinn were a better person, she’d make Rachel stop cold turkey. But then she might never get to see Rachel again, shuddering and shaking and _coming_. She might never get to feel Rachel’s hot flesh under her fingers, or kiss her incredibly pert breasts.

She might never see Rachel fall apart again.

So when her fingers twitch against the phantom touch of the belt in her hand, she steps backwards and silently invites Rachel in.

"Mom’s not home.” And then Quinn blushes brightly, because it’s just occurred to her that maybe Rachel’s not here for that at all. Maybe Rachel wants something else entirely.

Quinn hesitates for a moment before deciding that whatever the content of this conversation, it’s probably best to have it in her room. So she leads Rachel upstairs, to a room with a lockable door and her mother isn’t home and won’t be for quite some time and there’s her bed. The bed in which, late at night for the last three weeks, she’s dreamt about Rachel. The bed in which memories of Rachel’s sounds and smells and taste—the thought of Rachel’s taste makes her shudder, just like always—wash over her. Not just wash over her, propel her forward. She’s still not very good at touching herself, but she’s working on it. Thinking about Rachel somehow makes everything so much easier, and now Rachel’s here, in front of her. This is either going to be very good or very bad.

Rachel follows silently, and once more Quinn is struck by how quiet Rachel can be. The last time she was this quiet—she stops that line of thought. She should wait and see what Rachel’s here to talk about.

Rachel waits just inside the door. Quinn closes it behind them, and is momentarily paralyzed by the vision of her bed with sunshine spilling across it. She’s thought about them in her bed many times over the last three weeks, but in her imagination it’s always at night, in the dark. In her dreams, a single lamp casts gentle shadows across Rachel’s body. Today is brightly sunny and the light creates dark pockets of shadow in her room, secret places to hide.

She waits for Rachel to open her mouth.

An eternity later, Rachel says, “This is stupid,” and reaches for the door.

“No!" Quinn doesn’t panic. She doesn’t. Not at all. “No. Tell me what you’re here for.”

Rachel’s hand is on the handle, and Quinn can’t see her face.

“Tell me.”

“You still have my belt.”

Quinn nods. Rachel still isn’t looking, but now that she’s started speaking, Quinn’s not sure she trusts her voice.

“And you said.” Rachel takes a deep breath and faces Quinn. She takes another one, and straightens her back and Quinn is so busy staring at her chest she almost misses what she says. “You said that if I wanted to do it again, I couldn’t do it alone.”

Everything in Quinn freezes; she would swear even her heart stops for a moment. Rachel is here, and she’s asking for it.

She’s asking for Quinn.

Her throat is too tight to speak. She definitely can’t trust her voice, so she nods instead.

“You still have my belt.”

Quinn nods again.

“And—”

Quinn waits.

“Are you going to make me ask?”

“No,” says Quinn. Rachel can’t leave. She can’t. “But you really want…”

Rachel nods. “Yes,” she says, just to confirm to Quinn that she’s agreeing to it. As if Quinn needed extra confirmation. Of course, given what Rachel’s asking for, maybe she does need extra confirmation.

Quinn sighs. “Fine.”

Neither of them move.

Quinn has no idea what Rachel’s problem is, but she can’t move because she’s suddenly soaked through her clothes. She’s afraid that if she tries to walk, she’ll make horrible squishing sounds and the potential humiliation is almost more than she can stand. Not to mention Quinn’s pretty sure if she touches Rachel, she’ll come just from that. That would be awful.

But even worse would be if she touches Rachel and Rachel doesn’t come. Quinn’s not sure she could survive that.

Which leads to her next thought—did Rachel bring the dildo? Rachel is carrying a purse that looks big enough to fit it so the answer is probably yes, but it seems like it would be rude to ask.

It also seems like it would be rude to ask Rachel how, exactly, she wants Quinn to do this, but she might have to because Rachel still isn’t moving. At all.

“So, um,” says Quinn, and Rachel jerks into motion, pulling her sweater over her head and sliding her skirt down her legs. She’s in a bra and panties before Quinn quite knows what happened, and Quinn’s jaw drops. There might even be drool: Rachel is wearing matching yellow lingerie, adult lingerie, lace and silk and thighs and stomach and breasts on display.

Quinn chokes. She’s not even moving, and she nearly falls over her own feet at the sight. Her face is definitely flaming; if anyone—if Rachel—tried to touch her now, she’s pretty sure she’d burn them.

Rachel just reaches behind her back and once more before Quinn can adjust to what’s going on, Rachel is naked and crawling across the bed—crawling, and her ass is as gorgeous as every other part of her, all curves and hollows and begging for Quinn’s touch—and laying back against the pillows.

“Well?”

Quinn blinks.

Her chest feel very strange. Maybe this is what a heart attack feels like.

“Quinn, are you okay?” Rachel says and sits up. Quinn’s not sure where Rachel’s going, but there’s no way Quinn’s going to last if she—naked!—touches her. So she stumbles backwards to the closet, trying to push through the cotton in her brain to remember what she’s doing. Except the only thing she can think of is Rachel, and skin, and Rachel, and heat, and Rachel, and the space between her legs.

This is a very bad idea.

Thank heavens Rachel seems to understand that Quinn needs a moment, because she doesn’t say anything while Quinn tries to pull herself together. It takes her a few minutes to recover her confidence enough to face Rachel with full use of her legs and belt in hand. She’s going to do this. She’s going to keep it together. She’s going to give Rachel Berry the best orgasm she’s ever had in her life.

Quinn turns around.

Dejá vu.

Because not only is Rachel naked, she’s also got her legs spread and she’s playing with herself and the monster toy is back and Rachel’s wet, Quinn can see her glistening and if she breathes she knows she’ll be able to smell Rachel and she can’t do this. She can’t. She’s going to die first, she’s on fire and she can’t breathe and she hasn’t even touched Rachel yet.

“Quinn?”

It’s a near thing, but Quinn manages to stop the whimper before it leaves her throat. “Yeah?” she says horsely and casually strolls across the room. Stumbles, really, but as long as Rachel doesn’t notice it doesn’t matter.

“Are you okay?” says Rachel.

Rats. She noticed.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Rachel nods absently. She’s not paying any attention to Quinn because she’s riveted on the belt in Quinn’s hands. Quinn licks her lips. She is not anywhere near good, but she can’t stop now, not when Rachel is waiting.

“How—what—” Quinn’s not sure what the question is, what kind of answer she’s looking for, but given how aroused Rachel is it probably doesn’t matter. She can barely hear own voice over the roaring in her ears and she’s pretty sure she’s going to pass out. She never realized how terrifying girls are; she has a lot more sympathy for Finn right now, that’s for sure.

Rachel frowns at her. Quinn’s stomach contracts and she wills herself not to cower. “You said you were there,” Rachel says.

Quinn nods.

“You know.” Rachel gestures towards the belt.

The belt. Right. Somehow, faced with a naked aroused Rachel in her bed, Quinn had forgotten entirely what she was supposed to do with the belt.

And now she’s supposed to wrap it around Rachel’s neck and pull it and then Rachel will make all those horrible sounds. Because Quinn’s choking her. She’s supposed to do that to Rachel, so Rachel will come.

She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to at all, but there’s a part of her that is itching to feel Rachel under her hands, that needs to push her, to demand things of Rachel, that wants to force her. There’s a part of Quinn that is looking forward to this.

She takes a deep breath and moves closer.

Rachel’s eyes are huge. Dark. Seductive. Completely focused on the belt.

Rachel wants the belt.

Quinn wants Rachel.

She’s staring at Rachel, and Rachel’s staring at the belt, and all of a sudden Quinn’s vision goes black at the edges and she realizes she’s breathing too fast and the room is closing in on her and the air is too thick dripping with Rachel’s scent and she needs to get out of there for a minute or else she’s going to pass out and she can’t do this, she can’t hurt Rachel, RachelRachelRachel—

Rachel meets her eyes and the darkness recedes.

And then Rachel smiles.

Rachel smiles at her, and something breaks in Quinn’s chest. Opens, explodes, and Rachel’s teeth blind Quinn and Rachel’s eyes invite her in and Quinn melts.

In that moment, Quinn knows how Rachel feels when she has the belt around her neck. Quinn is soaring, detached from gravity— _defying gravity_ —and it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world. Nothing can touch her, nothing bad or disappointing or sinful. In that moment, there are no disapproving fathers or hurt boyfriends or failed pregnancy tests; there’s just sun on her back and air under her feet and freedom. And Rachel.

Quinn doesn’t really know how she makes it the last few feet to the bed but it doesn’t matter because once she’s there Rachel’s sitting up and Quinn slides in behind her—the websites all said this was a better angle—and she should be overwhelmed by the feel of Rachel’s skin, her entire body pressed back against Quinn, but she’s not. It’s as if Quinn’s body has taken over, decided that this is a good thing, the right thing, and all Quinn can do is go along with it.

So she does.

The sound Rachel makes the second the leather slips around her neck is almost enough to make Quinn come right then, but she takes a deep breath and centers herself and slowly, slowly she draws the belt tight. Flush against Rachel’s neck, and up close like this Quinn can see how dark Rachel’s skin is, the blood all the way to the surface. Quinn wants to taste her, explore everything she can see but especially the area right next to the belt, that little smooth surface between Rachel’s ear and the leather. She wants to soak up Rachel’s skin. Rachel’s sweating; Quinn wants the salt on her tongue.

But she’s not sure she’s allowed to do that, so instead she closes her eyes and slides the belt across her, pretending that it’s her fingers softly on Rachel’s neck, and she starts to pull. There’s no slack but it’s surprisingly easy to tighten the belt even more. Rachel’s skin gives way, and for a moment Quinn is fascinated by the feeling of increasing pressure and then Rachel starts to make those sounds again.

Those horrible sounds. The ones that Quinn hears in her nightmares. Rachel sounds like she’s dying. She is dying, because Quinn is choking her.

Quinn almost lets go.

It’s worse this time, listening to Rachel choke. The whimpers sound like the tortured puppies in those Animal Planet SPCA shows, and the gasps for air that isn’t there turn Quinn’s stomach. If she weren’t so aware of Rachel’s hand furiously rubbing between her legs, she would let go because Quinn’s not sure she can handle it. Bile rises up in her throat. She agreed to do this, she wants to do this, but she hasn’t felt this nauseous since the first few months with Beth and she hasn’t felt this terrible about herself since she got thrown out of the house. She’s a horrible person and if she doesn’t go to hell for having sex with another girl, she’ll definitely go to hell for killing the girl she’s having sex with. This is wrong.

But Rachel is almost there, almost coming, and Quinn braces herself and pulls the belt just a little tighter and holds it steady and tight with one hand so she can reach around with her other hand to wrap her hand around Rachel’s breast.

It’s softer than she expected, even with her nipple hot and stiff and engorged with blood. Part of Quinn is thrilled that she’s touching Rachel, touching her gorgeous, perfect breasts and one of those tips that’s been haunting her imagination for weeks, but most of her just wants it to be over, wants Rachel to come and be finished and go away again so Quinn can stop hurting her.

She doesn’t want this.

Rachel’s panting gasps are so close together now it’s almost continuous and Quinn’s seriously scared that she isn’t getting enough air—because she isn’t getting enough air—so she twists the belt and twists Rachel’s nipple at the same time and then Rachel’s there.

Shuddering and shaking and pressing back into Quinn, pressing Quinn’s hand down onto her breast and Quinn can’t stop herself from pushing her own hips against Rachel’s ass and Quinn clamps her mouth down on Rachel’s neck right above the belt and sucks and Rachel grinds back with the last moments of her own orgasm and that’s enough to make Quinn come, too.

Rachel collapses against her, barely moving; Quinn does the same against the pillows and lets the belt slither loose to drape around Rachel’s neck. Quinn recognizes the trend by now, but she’s still a little terrified that she’s killed Rachel or something.

Her arms automatically go around Rachel, pulling her even closer into Quinn and they nestle together for a moment before Rachel gets demanding again.

At least, that’s what Quinn’s expecting, since everything else this afternoon has been exactly like it was in New York three weeks ago. Everything except for Quinn’s orgasm, and that should probably feel like a bigger deal since it’s the first one she’s ever had with another person. Because of another person.

Because of a girl.

But it’s hard to be concerned with losing her lesbian virginity when she’s still worried she’s caused Rachel permanent brain damage. That was the whole point of offering to do this to Rachel, for Rachel: because it would be safer. She’s not sure that it is safer anymore. She’s not sure of anything except that Rachel’s skin is searing her own; there’s a brand on her arm from where it’s still wrapped around Rachel’s body.

“Quinn?” Rachel murmurs. She sounds sleepy and content. Relaxed. She sounds nothing like the Rachel Berry Quinn knows. Maybe Quinn’s killed all the overachieving brain cells in Rachel, the demanding, annoying ones.

“Yeah?”

“More?” It’s soft and sweet and not demanding at all. Quinn kind of wants to hear the begging again, when Rachel sounded like she’d die without Quinn’s touch, but this is nice, too. Very nice, and if Quinn thought she was in trouble before, the way her heart thumps at Rachel’s soft request tears it completely. She’s gone on this girl. Holding hands in the hallway gone. Long walks on the beach gone. Protect her from every bad thing in the world gone.

Quinn tightens her hold just a little before letting go and squirming out from behind Rachel.

“All right, but no more belt, okay?”

Rachel nods slowly, her face still slack with satisfaction. She smiles at Quinn and suddenly Quinn’s feels like she’s teetering on the edge of a huge precipice. Falling in love isn’t supposed to feel quite so literal; it’s never been this scary before, either, but Rachel’s smile makes Quinn feel safe despite the danger, and she smiles back.

“We’ll use this,” she says, and picks up Rachel’s discarded toy.

She flips the switch, and Rachel’s got some sort of Pavlovian response to the sound or something because before Quinn even touches her with it Rachel is trembling again and spreading her legs.

Quinn had sort of gotten used to ignoring the heavy scent in her room, or at least to not being completely distracted by it, but now, back in between Rachel’s legs like she’s been dreaming of, with waves of Rachel’s renewed arousal hitting her in the face, she can’t think. That’s the only explanation for what she does next: she wasn’t thinking.

She drags the tip of the toy between Rachel’s legs, through her soaking folds and brushes it past her clit and pulls it out.

It’s shining and the smell is making her feel light-headed again and really, she isn’t thinking at all.

Rachel still tastes amazing.

Quinn’s licking at it like the thing is a lollipop and this time the taste is stronger, more intense, very nearly directly from Rachel’s own body. The last time, it was mostly sweat and the scent and Quinn’s unbearable arousal, but this time the toy was _just in Rachel._ The toy was touching Rachel and now it’s in Quinn’s mouth and it tastes so good Quinn can hear herself moaning and desperately swiping her tongue along it, chasing every single drop she can find. It’s not until it’s completely clean that she thinks to looks at Rachel again.

Rachel isn’t moving: she’s stiff and frozen, except that isn’t the right analogy because she’s throwing off heat like a furnace, but she isn’t moving. So fire’s not right, either. She’s staring at Quinn, though, at Quinn’s mouth and the toy in her hand and her eyes are so large and dark the room recedes a little again and Quinn gets lost in the darkness. She’s got Rachel in her mouth, and Rachel’s eyes boring into hers, and the room is thick with the smell of Rachel—and Quinn, too; it makes Quinn’s mouth water even more, the smell of them mixed together like that—and Quinn needs to move, needs to dive into Rachel, needs to _make Rachel come._ Now.

But Rachel blows Quinn’s mind when she says, “Are you going to take your clothes off?”

Quinn blinks.

Rachel gestures, and Quinn looks down, and yep, she’s still dressed. Completely, in fact. Still in her yoga pants and OSU t-shirt and they just had sex and Quinn didn’t even get naked.

Quinn blushes so hard she’d probably blend into her uniform if she were still wearing it and grabs at the hem of her shirt. Unfortunately, the toy is still in her hand and she ends up fumbling around with both and dropping the toy on the carpet and getting stuck in her shirt and now she wants to cry. Even giving birth and letting the entire world see her intimate parts wasn’t this humiliating. The only saving grace is that her shirt is stuck around her head, so at least Rachel can’t see her trembling lips and the tears about to slide down her face.

Delicate hands on her waist make her jump, though, and nearly fall down. She didn’t hear Rachel get up from the bed; after the last time, she wasn’t sure if Rachel could walk yet, but Quinn supposes that this time wasn’t as good, and wow, that was not a thought designed to make her feel any better about how things are going down. But Rachel is gently pulling the shirt off, and then those quick, clever fingers—and since when does she think Rachel has clever fingers? Fingers aren’t clever. She never thought stupid things like this about Finn, or Sam—Rachel’s clever fingers are unhooking her bra and drawing it down her arms and Quinn sighs.

Rachel is staring at her breasts, and Quinn desperately wants to cover her chest. She knows she’s not that big, and after Beth she’s kind of saggy and shrunken and there are stretch marks on her boobs. She was expecting them on her stomach, as huge as she had gotten, but on her boobs, too? Not. Fair. But Rachel is staring and Quinn’s just realized she can’t move and breathe at the same time when Rachel’s looking at her like that, so she concentrates on the important one, and lets Rachel look.

It takes forever.

Quinn is in agony, waiting for Rachel to be done with her inspection. She’s so focused on keeping her breathing even and not passing out that when Rachel touches her it’s another shock. But at least she doesn’t fall down. She does, however, let out the most mortifying squeak in the history of forever, and Rachel smirks at her. Smirks! At Quinn! Not that it’s not warranted; Quinn sounded like a baby chipmunk just then, as if no one had ever touched her boobs before. The fact that no one has—she didn’t let Finn or Sam, and she kept her shirt on for the whole thing with Puck and those have been the only opportunities—is besides the point.

Rachel is being so utterly gentle, too, running the tips of her fingers across Quinn’s stretch marks. Quinn had no idea she was so sensitive there; she’s never felt herself up, either, so this is virgin territory. Not that either of them is technically a virgin, between Puck and the humongous toy. But this is the first time Quinn’s ever wanted to do this, and Rachel seems to want it pretty badly, too.

Rachel’s touch is barely there, but it burns. Quinn can feel the echo long after Rachel’s moved along, and then when she comes back and retraces her tracks—okay, Quinn’s knees are about to go. It’s too much. And it’s not enough at the same time because even though Rachel said she wanted Quinn to take her clothes off, Quinn’s still got her pants on and the fabric suddenly feels like sackcloth. It’s a hair shirt and boy oh boy this is not what those saints had in mind when they went looking for penance. Rachel lighting Quinn’s skin on fire definitely doesn’t count as redemptive suffering.

“Are you going to fuck me now?” Rachel says, and Quinn realizes with a jolt that Rachel didn’t say she wanted Quinn’s clothes off, she just asked if Quinn was going to take them off. Because this isn’t about Quinn. It’s about Rachel, and what Rachel wants. And right now, Rachel wants to be—touched.

Quinn wants to cry. Again.

For something that’s supposed to be beautiful and wonderful and memorable, this day is turning out to kind of suck.

Her first time sober, and Rachel doesn’t seem to care. It might even be Rachel’s first time, and Rachel definitely doesn’t care about that. Doesn’t care that she’s giving herself to Quinn, to someone who thinks she’s amazing and perfect and the most beautiful woman on earth.

Someone who is quite possibly in love with her.

It’s too much. Something inside her snaps and she shoves Rachel back towards the bed. It’s all boiling up now, fear and anger and desire. Who is Rachel to make Quinn question everything she’s ever known? Who is Rachel to turn Quinn into a _lesbian_? Nobody. She’s nobody, and if she wants to be—if she wants to be _taken_ , Quinn’s going to oblige her. Rachel’s not going to be able to walk when Quinn’s done with her, walk or talk or yes, even breathe. Quinn has never failed at anything in her entire life and she’s not about to start now.

(Beth was not a failure, and just like she refuses to think about how’s she’s going to hell for liking Rachel, she refuses to think about her baby, who just had her first birthday and is less and less of a baby every day. Maybe Santana is right and Quinn is a little repressed.)

So Quinn pushes Rachel again and crawls on top of her when she hits her back and grabs the belt and wraps it around Rachel’s neck again, double this time. And then she pulls and it’s easier this time and Rachel’s eyes are huge and she’s grabbing at the belt, trying to pull it away but Quinn’s not about to let go.

“Is this what you want?” she says. “Tell me.”

Rachel doesn’t say anything. Rachel can’t say anything: her eyes are bulging and her mouth is moving but nothing’s coming out and the belt is tight and getting tighter. Her lips are turning purple.

“Tell me!” Quinn shoves her knee against Rachel. She’s immediately drenched with Rachel. She can feel it through her pants, which are unfortunately still on, and she gives an answering rush of arousal. But at least hers is hidden. Rachel’s need is blatantly obvious and Quinn pulls at the belt a little more while she presses her leg into Rachel. She can’t get a rhythm going this time either, but Rachel doesn’t seem to mind.

“Does this make you feel good, Rachel?”

Rachel is nodding and grabbing at the belt and shaking and her eyes are glued to Quinn’s.

“Tell me!” Quinn lets go for an instant to grab the toy.

Rachel tries to answer while desperately gasping for air, but Quinn doesn’t want to hear anything out of her mouth right now.

She grabs the toy and flicks the switch. It’s on the highest setting. “Is this what you want?”

Rachel whines.

“ _Tell me._ ”

Rachel tries to answer, whimpers desperately and gasps for air, but Quinn doesn’t want to hear anything out of Rachel’s mouth right now. Not when no matter what Rachel says, it would be the wrong thing. She doesn’t really want an answer. She doesn’t have one, and she’s pretty sure Rachel doesn’t, either.

She shoves the toy into Rachel as far as it’ll go, not caring if it hurts her, if it’s too much.

It’s not too much.

It’s loud and obnoxious and drowns out Rachel’s whimpers.

Quinn repeats, “Is this what you want?”

Rachel can’t answer because she’s already coming, convulsing and shaking and gripping Quinn’s wrist still attached to the belt that’s choking her.

Quinn’s not coming, not this time. She’s not even close, nowhere near, and it should probably worry her, how detached she feels. Like she’s not even having sex with Rachel. It’s still beautiful—Rachel’s still beautiful—but it feels different.

Maybe because Quinn has her shirt off.

She lets go of the belt when it looks like Rachel’s done, but she doesn’t let go of the toy. Dildo. Vibrator. She’s probably going to have to figure out what to call it if they keep doing this.

Right now, that feels like a very big if.

Maybe Santana’s right, if she doesn’t even know the right words for describing what she’s doing to the girl she’s having sex with. Because that’s what this is: just sex. Quinn never imagined that she’d ever be the sort of person to have sex with someone. She was supposed to wait, to be with the man—person—she was married to. She was supposed to be making l—

She pushes that thought away, though, and while Rachel might be done for a second time, Quinn hasn’t let go of the toy yet, and she doesn’t turn it down, either. She’s not done with this.

She’s relentless, touching Rachel everywhere between her legs now that she can use both hands, not really caring about what Rachel wants or needs. She might even feel bad about it, except that Rachel looks thrilled, writhing and squirming and moaning and begging.

She’s begging again, for more, for Quinn, but Quinn doesn’t really care. This is now the fourth time Quinn’s watched Rachel—made Rachel—beg and moan and want and some, but unlike all the other times, when Quinn felt completely out of control and desperate herself and couldn’t think, this time she’s just sort of…there. Watching. She cares, obviously she does, but mostly, she just wants to see how much Rachel can take, spread out and dripping onto her bed, getting taken again and again and _again_.

This time, Quinn’s not going to stop until she’s done, and she has no idea when that’s going to be. Possibly when the blank, distant feeling in her chest goes away.

Rachel, though, is clearly still into it. She doesn’t seem to have noticed that Quinn’s acting differently. Quinn wonders if maybe she isn’t acting any differently, which would be great, if Rachel had no idea how much she was messing with Quinn’s head. She just keeps saying Quinn’s name, and please, and yes, and clutching at the covers and rolling her hips. Rolling her hips like she’s looking for more contact, and Quinn has no idea how much more Rachel could possibly want, because the toy is _huge_ and it’s all the way inside of her and is has been for however long it’s been since the first time, and she just keeps thrusting and shoving it into Rachel and bumping her fingers around everywhere, slipping across all sorts of little folds and nubs and Rachel is so hot and silky and it’s like nothing in the world Quinn’s ever felt. And Rachel wants this, so Quinn’s going to give it to her.

Eventually, Rachel stops thrashing quite so much. She also stops talking. Quinn’s not sure why, because every few seconds she still jumps and jerks, but it’s slowing down. Quinn slows down, too, watching Rachel’s face closely, wondering if they’re finally reaching Rachel’s limit. She’s not sure, because Rachel’s pleas and moans don’t really stop, they just lose cohesion and sense and get softer. Her movements relax. Not relax, exactly, but they’re not as needy as they were before. Slower, maybe. Languid. No, that’s not right, either, and while Quinn is busy trying to think of the right way to describe just how Rachel is getting quieter and quieter, Rachel just sort of…stops. Stops moving, stops begging, collapses onto the pillows, and lets out a huge snore.

She’s passed out.

Quinn pounded her unconscious.

Quinn stares, stunned.

What now?

~~~

They’re at the mall, hanging out. Mercedes is talking about…something, and Quinn should really be paying attention. She’s not, because all she can think about is telling Mercedes. Her tongue is practically raw from chewing on it to stop herself, and where would she even start? Hi, my name is Quinn Fabray, and I like driving girls girls unconscious with too many orgasms.

Luckily, Mercedes is still in wait-it-out mode, which is probably why they’re such good friends.

But that doesn’t stop her from looking extremely curious, if not exactly welcoming, when Rachel comes bounding out of some kids store with two huge bags and makes a bee-line for them.

“Hi, Mercedes,” she chirps, and then turns to face Quinn.

Quinn’s face flames.

Rachel doesn’t look sexy—doesn’t look appealing in the least, actually, with one of her typical high-waisted skirts and a sleeveless blouse with entirely too many frills and ruffles and oh dear, are those little carousel horses? Doesn’t she already have a sweater with those on it? So Rachel doesn’t look sexy, or even cute, so why is Quinn noticing how nicely her stupid blouse fits her soft curves, or the way her stupid 80s jeans skirt flares just a little bit and shows even more leg. Tan leg. Toned leg. Leg that could, at this very moment, be spread open and trembling and—

“Are you busy tonight?” Rachel asks, point blank.

As if this is the sort of thing they arrange ahead of time. As if this is the sort of thing Quinn wants anyone to know about.

Quinn flinches.

Mercedes stares, clearly wondering what is going on.

After Quinn had shared the tale of the prom slap with Mercedes, they had agreed that it was probably best for everyone if Quinn stayed far, far away from Rachel, and as far as Mercedes knows, Quinn has kept to that. Given what happened in New York, well. She really should have kept her distance.

But that’s not going to happen now. That’s not a possibility any more.

“Aren’t you and Finn hanging out?” Mercedes asks Rachel.

Rachel stares at her blandly and shakes her head. “Quinn?”

At least Finn and Rachel aren’t dating again. Oh God, how much worse could this have been? A lot worse.

“Um. Uh. Well—” Quinn stutters, mind briefly derailed at the thought of Finn doing _that_ to—with—Rachel. Great. Now in addition to being a big lezzie, she’s suddenly inarticulate. Does it still count as swearing if it’s just the acronym? Because seriously, FML.

“We were planning on going out to Westerville, catch a movie with Kurt and Blaine,” Mercedes says, when it’s clear that Quinn isn’t going to answer her.

Or rather, that Quinn can’t answer her, because now the words that are straining to get out of her mouth, flow out like a waterfall, and damn, now she’s thinking about how wet Rachel gets, dripping down her thighs and leaving spots on the bedspread and—

Quinn can’t meet Rachel’s eyes. Or Mercedes’. Quinn will never look up from the ground again as long as she lives.

“Oh,” Rachel says. “I didn’t realize. Another time?”

Mercedes gives Quinn a measured look. “You could come with us. We’d have invited you, but I thought you had dance class on Tuesdays.”

Rachel looks surprised. “I do. But…”

But what, Quinn wants to know. But she’s willing to give up a precious dance class to let Quinn have sex with her? Wow. Quinn’s really moving up in the world, if Rachel’s willing to trade some measure of her future Broadway success for an orgasm or two. Or five.

“If you don’t have class, you should come. I know Blaine would love to see you.”

Now Quinn’s surprised; after what happened at Rachel’s misadventurous house party, she figured Kurt would have had Blaine on a slightly shorter leash than that. Although they did sound fantastic together, so of course Rachel was minutes away from falling in love with Blaine.

In which case, no, they are not going to see a movie with Kurt and Blaine.

“So are you coming?” says Mercedes.

“Um,” says Rachel.

“We’ll be back by ten," Quinn says. They wouldn’t have been if she hadn’t said something; they’re never back before midnight when they go to the movies with Blaine and Kurt because they find someplace to talk and drink sodas and talk and laugh. But Mercedes clearly wants Rachel to come, because she’s nodding, too, like getting to bed at a reasonable hour is a good idea on a summer evening.

Getting to bed, not getting to sleep. Not if they’re in the same—

“Sure,” says Rachel.

Quinn gasps. She didn’t expect Rachel to agree. In front of _Mercedes._

This is a terrible idea.

~~~

Having Rachel along reduces the urge to tell Mercedes anything, because now instead of thinking about telling Mercedes how much she likes seeing Rachel naked and spread out and panting, she’s thinking about feeling Rachel naked and spread out and panting. Hearing her. Feeling her.

Oh God, tasting her. Sliding her tongue against Rachel, lapping those endless slender thighs, tracing the muscles up to where they join her hip bones. Up to the folds of flesh that sit right at her middle, the ones that pour out everything Rachel’s thinking about when she whimpers and moans and pleads unthinkingly with Quinn.

Pleads with Quinn, and Quinn wants to give her _everything,_ give her anything to keep her crying out—

"Quinn?” Rachel says. It sounds wrong. Not desperate, not husky, not Rachel. “What are your feelings on getting something to eat first?”

Oh. Because it’s not that Rachel. Quinn’s face burns and she desperately tries to focus. It’s hard. This is not naked Rachel standing in front of her, this is clothed Rachel, wearing—Quinn blinks. Wearing the sort of clothes that remind Quinn why she prefers Rachel naked, really.

“We have almost an hour before the movie,” she huffs, “and I’m fairly certain that we will all be starving if we wait until after. So I suggest—”

I suggest you get on with it, Quinn imagines Rachel say. Breathy Rachel, whose thighs tremble with the effort of holding them so wide open, whose breasts heave and jiggle just a little bit, whose nipples are begging to be pinched.

“—That we go find something to eat.”

“You know we love you,” says Kurt, “but please stop. We’re having fun, okay.”

Not as much fun as they could be having.

“Yeah.” Blaine wraps an arm around Rachel. Quinn tenses. “We’re supposed to be having a good time, sweetie. Let’s just try.”

Mercedes strikes a pose. “It’s summer. We’re teenagers at the mall. We’re—”

Discovering our sexualities.

“—Hanging out and relaxing.”

Discovering the real reason porn is such a huge business. Quinn had no idea. This has never happened to her before. Everyone always jokes that teenagers are sexual beings, that boys think about it every ten seconds, that—she hears Rachel’s voice in her head, not desperate Rachel but normal, everyday, school Rachel, saying “Girls want sex just as much as boys do” and she does, Quinn wants it, wants Rachel, wants hot skin and the smell of Rachel coming—anything will turn her on.

“Humor me," says Rachel.

"Sure,” Quinn blurts before she knows what’s coming out of her mouth. “Yes.” I will. Anything. I will do _anything_ at all that you want, Rachel.

Story of her life, really.

~~~

All Quinn can think about for the entire movie is reaching over and holding Rachel’s hand. They wouldn’t even have to do anything; no movie theater make-outs, no heavy petting underneath Rachel’s skirt—or Quinn’s sundress—no admitting to anyone that they’re busy going at it like rabbits whenever the mood takes them. Takes Rachel.

But she doesn’t.

~~~

“You can be rough,” Rachel says out of the blue.

“What?" blurts Quinn. Her fingers are wrapped in the belt, twining and twisting it. Practicing, not that she really needs practice anymore. They’ve done it enough, she’s played with it enough, that it’s almost second nature by now. It’s just the feel of the belt is almost identical to her these days as the feel of Rachel’s skin. It’s a good thing that Rachel doesn’t know that Quinn sometimes sleeps with the belt close to her cheek, inhaling the lingering scent of Rachel and what they do together and the soft smell of the leather, because if she knew, she would think Quinn was the worst kind of freak. Even weirder than Rachel.

"You know, push me around, make me do things.”

“…Do things?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what?”

Rachel shrugs, her eyes shining. “Anything you want.”

Images flash behind Quinn’s eyes: Rachel with her mouth covered—by Quinn’s hand, a scarf tied behind her head, a tennis ball stuffed in making her jaw ache and keeping anything she might have to say deep inside her throat. And then the scarves are somehow around her wrists, twining and caressing, dark purple against Rachel’s rich skin, navy blue curling up her calves, scarlet across her eyes so Quinn doesn’t have to see that vague look on Rachel’s face when she’s looking at the belt instead of at Quinn.

Okay, so maybe not anything Quinn wants. Because this isn’t about Quinn, it’s about Rachel, and the stupid belt, and making sure the most talented person Lima’s ever seen doesn’t kill herself before she gets a chance to go thrill the entire world.

“What do you want?” she says instead.

Rachel shrugs. “You can be rough. Make me do stuff.”

Quinn is clearly not quite getting it, so she pushes Rachel a little. Not like the slap, not frantic and explosive, not bursting out her in a need to touch Rachel and get her to _pay attention_. No, this is just a little…push.

But Rachel responds as if Quinn’s suddenly done something very passionate. Something Quinn can’t quite imagine, because why else would Rachel stumble backwards towards the bed, whimpering, lips trembling and limbs all of sudden lacking at semblance of grace. Quinn takes a step forward, following Rachel, and Rachel actually cowers. Sort of. She hunches her shoulder the tiniest bit, ducks her head, won’t meet Quinn’s eyes.

Quinn taps her shoulder again and Rachel stumbles back one more time.

Quinn’s in Rachel’s face all of a sudden, like she hasn’t been since sophomore year, since before everything changed, and she has no idea how to deal with this. Breathing the same air as Rachel, leaning over her. Quinn has a flash of a row of lockers behind Rachel and has to stop herself from dissolving into hysterical laughter. Hysterical is right, though; her heart is pounding and she probably needs to back up, because it’s going to make Rachel deaf it’s thundering so hard.

“You want me to make you…” she says, striving for calm and cool and collected.

She reaches for the feeling she had all those months ago, pressing Rachel back into the lockers, but this time Rachel isn’t trying to get away, isn’t trapped between the irresistible force of Quinn and the immoveable wall of metal. This time she’s arching forward, pressing into Quinn and into the bed at the same time, and Quinn falters and pulls back. This is so different from then, nothing is the same, and there’s no way she can pretend.

There’s no way she can be that person anymore, not with how she feels now, not with what she wants.

“You want me to make you…” she repeats, and yanks Rachel’s sweater up and spins her around at the same time. Rachel’s hand are tangled in the arms, and Quinn pulls them backwards, making Rachel arch even further, press back into her to stop from falling over or dislocating something. Quinn wishes she had a mirror, so she could see the look on Rachel’s face. And her breasts, too, wrapped in her pink bra.

Pink with polka dots.

Suddenly, Quinn needs to see if her panties match, needs it more than she’s ever needed anything else in her life. More than anything since the last time she touched Rachel, anyway.

Rachel is squirming just a tiny bit, sliding against Quinn, and Quinn shifts, holding Rachel’s arms above their heads with one hand and letting the other hand slip down Rachel’s chest, across her stomach and around her sides. Rachel gasps. Quinn still can’t figure out what Rachel is imagining, so instead she pushes further down to the clasp on Rachel’s skirt and unhooks it. Rachel helps it a little, slithering herself, and that twisting, grinding movement is doing things to Quinn, things that make her forget that it’s the middle of the day and that the belt is waiting on her pillow, that Rachel is waiting, too.

Because Rachel is grinding against Quinn.

Grinding.

Pressing herself—pressing her bottom—against Quinn’s front, against her stomach and lower than that, pressing against where Quinn wants Rachel most.

Every time Rachel breathes, it shoots straight to between Quinn’s legs, that spot that she’s only just beginning to explore with any serious intent, the place that oozes unattractively and pulses all the time around Rachel. The place that aches.

Quinn’s imagination betrays her again, and the words cross her mind: asking Rachel to touch her. Asking Rachel about those fingers that Quinn’s seen buried between Rachel’s legs too many times; asking Rachel to put those same fingers in between Quinn’s legs.

Rachel did say she could ask for anything, after all.

But she probably hadn’t meant that. She couldn’t have meant that. She didn’t mean that.

The words cross her mind in a thousand different ways, but they never cross her lips. Instead, she clenches her teeth and pushes Rachel one more time.

Rachel lands on the bed, on her stomach, her arms still trapped behind her and legs tangled in her skirt.

“Down.” It’s rougher, lower, than anything that’s come out of Quinn’s mouth ever before. She’s practically growling at Rachel, and Rachel shivers and flops down on the bed. Quinn can barely keep hold of Rachel’s wrists, but Rachel’s not trying to get away at all. She’s still trying to arch up into Quinn, but now Rachel is lying on the bed and Quinn’s hovering over her, and there’s all this skin to explore on Rachel’s back.

“Yes,” whimpers Rachel.

She licks her lips and traces the planes and hallows of her back, the indents and bumps along her spine. Rachel is moaning and shivering underneath her, twisting her shoulders and wrists, but she doesn’t seem to be trying very hard to get away.

And for once, Quinn isn’t that bothered by the sounds that Rachel is making—they don’t distract her. They can’t. Because Rachel isn’t looking at Quinn, and she’s not looking that the belt, and all Quinn has to do—all Quinn can do—is trace the paths of Rachel’s body. Her back, her sides, down to her hips still covered by one of those stupid pleated skirts—only Rachel would wear a skirt fit for Church on a Tuesday afternoon long after school’s gotten out for the summer. But that’s okay, because there is more skin underneath the skirt.

Quinn flips it up.

Rachel flinches a little, but then she moans, “God, yes.”

Rachel’s panties do, in fact, match her bra: pink with polka dots, pressed tight across her bottom. Her butt. No, Quinn admits: Rachel has an ass, and it’s possibly the finest ass in all of Ohio.

The skirt is half-way off, anyway, so Quinn drags it down—Rachel helps by lifting herself up—and she tosses it aside. Rachel’s hands are still tangled in her sweater, and she’s face down on the bed. Quinn grabs Rachel’s legs and pulls a little.

“Oh God, please,” Rachel sobs, and spreads as easy as margarine.

Puck’s been making that joke for years, and Quinn’s always thought it was sexist and demeaning and not very funny on top of it.

It’s a little different, she admits, when there are legs spreading in front of you, spreading _for_ you. Because of what Quinn has done. Quinn pulled Rachel’s legs apart, and Rachel helped her, and now Quinn can see—because Rachel is letting her see, because Rachel is showing her—the huge wet spot she’s making on those pink panties. Rachel is rocking her hips, pressing into the bed, and whimpering what sounds like an endless litany of “yesyesyes.” Quinn wants that—wants that press and rhythm flow, so she climbs up on to Rachel.

It’s a little awkward. Okay, it’s a lot awkward. Rachel isn’t helping Quinn find an angle, or even a spot, she’s lost in her own little world again, still muttering but Quinn’s not sure she’s meant to hear it, or do anything about it—what does “yesyesyes” mean when it’s not accompanied by "yes, do that,” or “yes, touch here”? But Quinn is determined to feel Rachel’s ass—now covered in nothing but that thin layer of cotton—pressed against her again.

Which naturally segues into the thought of Rachel’s ass covered in nothing and rocking into Quinn—close together, shifting skin sliding against slick flesh, thrusting and panting and. Quinn shivers. She can imagine sliding against Rachel, if there weren’t layers between them, sliding along soft skin. Skin slick with arousal. With wetness.

With Rachel’s wetness.

With her own.

There’s another moan, but it doesn’t quite sound like Rachel. Oh. That was her. Quinn is moaning now, and Rachel is trapped between her own hips and the mattress.

“Mmm—please,” Rachel says.

“Yeah, yeah, oh God.” Quinn adds a little shimmy to her own hips, and Rachel clenches and twists in response.

And then she says something that isn’t quite yes.

“What, Rach,” Quinn pants, not stopping her own hips, jerking not quite rhythmically against Rachel.

Rachel moans again, still fairly indistinct.

“Tell me.” It’s almost too much for Quinn, she’s so close, just from pressing up against Rachel’s back. “tell me what you want.”

“Belt.”

Quinn freezes.

There are birds chirping outside. Someone mows their lawn and the sound buzzes across her ears. A couple of kids shout.

The room seems very far away right now.

Quinn blinks rapidly, trying to focus. The room is wavering, and everything feels really small, like she’s looking through a long tunnel. The bed seems a lot lower than before, and all she can see, all she can understand, are the tousled sheets and duvet and pillows askew on top. And Rachel. Rachel was right there, Quinn knows she was. Why can’t she feel her now? Where did she—oh. It’s because of the tears.

The tears that are welling in her eyes, because for whatever reason, no matter what she said in New York or at any time since then, Rachel isn’t here for Quinn. Rachel is here because Quinn refuses to let her kill herself with a belt and an orgasm.

And stupid Quinn keeps forgetting.

Right.

“You want—” she starts, but it gets stuck in her throat. She coughs, a little, to clear it, and tries again. But first, a deep breath. This might be the hardest thing she’s ever done, and pushed a baby out from the lovely secret place between her legs. “You want the belt?”

Rachel whines and suddenly pushes her ass up.

Quinn had no idea that was even a thing—Rachel’s whole body is precariously balanced on her knees and her her back is arched and there’s Rachel and if Quinn pulled off her underwear, she would be able to see everything, every crevice and dripping wet spot and Rachel wouldn’t be able to look back at all. Or not look back, as the case usually is.

Quinn wants that underwear off, now.

So she tugs it down.

Rachel cries out again, another yes, please, and somehow arches her back even more, spreads herself even wider, shows Quinn even more, and Quinn can’t look away. Rachel is somehow even pinker than the underwear now stretched tight between her legs and touching the mattress. Somehow even pinker, and she’s leaking. There’s no other way to put it: Rachel is dripping. Quinn stares.

“Belt.” Rachel whimpers again, and rolls her shoulders against the sweater still wrapping her wrists.

Right. Belt.

Quinn slips off the bed and finds the belt—it fell on the floor while she was busy bumping Rachel’s ass—and frowns at Rachel’s bare back. How in the world is she supposed to—Rachel’s neck is all the way up there, and her ass is right here and if she goes up to Rachel’s neck, the way her back is bent, she won’t be able to see the good stuff. The part of Rachel that smells—Quinn inhales deeply. And again. That smell is intoxicating, and her head swims. Her vision blurs again, but this time it’s because of the perfect scent of Rachel, of her arousal, of what Quinn pushing her around and sort of tying her up is doing to her. Okay. Quinn can do this. Rachel might want the belt, but she also wants to be pushed around a little. Right.

Quinn smacks Rachel’s ass.

She’s not sure what she was expecting, but Rachel convulsing is not it. She spasms, not quite like when she comes but definitely like when she wants more, and then she falls even further forward, exposing herself even more and somehow pressing her ass into the space that used to have Quinn’s hand in it.

“You want more,” Quinn murmurs.

“Please,” Rachel whines. “Please, yes, please.”

Please more, she thinks Rachel might be saying. Okay, more: she hits Rachel again. The smack echoes in the room. It’s distinctive, the sound of flesh on flesh, hitting someone. The only times Quinn’s heard it before have been when people have gotten into fistfights at school and late at night when her dad still lived at home. This is clearly not the same thing. Not least because Rachel is shaking, trembling, and there are red spots blooming on her bottom where Quinn has hit here. They’re not going to leave a mark, not yet, but they’re there right now, and Quinn blinks at them curiously.

She hits Rachel again.

And again, and again, and again.

Over and over, while Rachel writhes and whimpers and sometimes cries out—“Oh!” and “Please!” and “Quinn!” Rachel’s ass is bright red now, and now it might leave a mark. Quinn should be worried, should feel guilty at hurting Rachel so visibly, but she’s mostly just transfixed. Like she can’t stop hitting Rachel.

“More,” Rachel finally breathes, softly.

Quinn realizes that she’s been just staring at Rachel, Rachel who is so exposed and her center—her _pussy_ —is framed by her red ass and the pink panties and finally Quinn can’t stand it anymore.

She has to do something.

She has to—has to—wants to—

She touches Rachel.

That’s what it feels like. Like she’s touching Rachel for the first time ever, like she’s never touched Rachel before. Not her ass, not her arm, not her breasts, like she never even knew Rachel existed before she thrust her fingers inside her.

“Oh God.” Quinn exhales.

What now?

What is she supposed to do with all this—it’s slippery, and she can’t even figure out where anything is—there’s supposed to be a vaginal canal, okay, that’s where her fingers are, but the Internet said that there’s labia and a clitoris and—Quinn takes a deep breath. Two. Three breaths, and then she tries to focus. Labia: that’s outside, not where she’s randomly sliding around. Clit: that’s outside, too, and above the vaginal canal—that’s where she is, but Rachel is upside down, so the clit is—down. Towards the mattress. Quinn inches forward on her knees, perched behind Rachel, and tries to slide her other hand down there, too, to find her clit. It takes a couple of tries as Rachel sobs “oh yes oh please yes,” and fairly soon she thinks she’s found it, mostly because Rachel lets out a roar and the muscles around Quinn’s fingers clenches so tight she thinks Rachel might break something and Rachel bucks backward into her and Quinn loses her place and Rachel is thrashing and shuddering and buckling underneath her.

It takes a long time for Rachel to stop coming.

Once Rachel stops moving, and Quinn can finally extract her hand, they both collapse onto the mattress. Rachel’s legs come together just a little bit—or a lot, really, compared to how they were a minute ago, but they’re still spread—and she presses her cheek into the mattress. Quinn falls over and stares at her bottom. Her very red bottom.

They lay quietly. Quinn lets her thoughts drift. She lets the aroma in the room wash over her; it’s herself mixed with Rachel, even though Rachel is mostly naked and and she’s not at all. And of course Rachel’s ass. The sound—that smack. She can still hear it echo in the room, remember how Rachel’s flesh gave way and bounced back and changed color.

Rachel sighs. She sounds contented. But then she murmurs, “You didn’t use the belt,” and curls around, tossing the sweater aside and picking up the belt where it fell next to Rachel’s foot. She gently throws it at Quinn.

Quinn lets it fall on the bed, frowning.

Rachel smiles at her, curled up, completely casual and relaxed even though she’s wearing her underwear around her knees and Quinn is still wearing everything, even her shoes. Of course, if Quinn had just had a thundering orgasm like Rachel just had, she might feel relaxed and casual, too. Especially if she had an orgasm with the person she—

No. She’s not going there. Not now. Possibly not ever.

Her vision blurs red suddenly and she grabs the belt, rips it off the mattress and lunges at Rachel. Rachel’s eyes light up.

Quinn fumbles a little, but her hands know what she’s doing better than her mind does, and the belt tightens around Rachel’s neck. She reaches up to grasp it and their fingers bump. Quinn growls, low, and lets go just for a second so she can push Rachel’s hands away. Push them back up above her head and down onto the bed again. Quinn presses down pushing with both hands, one wrapped around Rachel’s wrists and one twisting the belt tighter and tighter and Rachel is gasping, her eyes are losing focus and her legs are thrashing again and Quinn’s straddling her waist, Rachel’s hip pressing against Quinn, against her clit, and Quinn’s thigh between Rachel’s legs and Rachel keeps bucking and twisting and convulsing with a second orgasm and Quinn can’t stand it anymore and comes and comes and comes.

~~~

“Quinnie, honey, does Rachel want to stay for dinner?”

Quinn blinks.

That look on her mom’s face—that look. She’s seen that look. It’s the same way Judy looked when Quinn first started dating Finn. And Sam. Pleasant, curious, trying. Trying to be excited by the person that Quinn is—

But she’s not.

Not at all. She’s not dating Rachel, and they’re not going to have dinner tonight, or any night, because that’s not what she and Rachel do. Even though they sort of do. They ate together with Mercedes and Kurt and Blaine, that one time, and then again with just Mercedes a few days later, and once with Blaine and Kurt and oh goodness, was that a double date? It was. Quinn caves in, a little: they had gone to a little cafe that just opened, because everyone said they had amazing salads and in Lima, that’s a place worth supporting, and Kurt and Rachel had talked non-stop about all sorts of things that Quinn actually wasn’t very interested in, and Blaine kept interjecting only to be shushed by his boyfriend, and the one time Quinn spoke up about something, Rachel had put a hand on her arm and it was so clearly a gentle “shut up, sweetie” moment but Quinn had stopped breathing because all she could think about was Rachel touching her, Rachel’s hand on her bare arm and their flesh pressed together and she was such a teenaged boy she didn’t even know they had been out on a double date.

Or were they? Because just now, upstairs, Rachel had barely said two words to her before stripping down and playing with herself, watching Quinn with those dark, intense eyes. The ones that make Quinn stutter.

“Quinn?” Judy says.

Quinn says, “Um.”

Rachel is suddenly next to her. “Hi.” She sounds happy. Perky, even.

For a moment Quinn is overwhelmed by her smell, but then she realizes it isn’t Rachel at all: it’s her shampoo on Rachel’s hair. Which is almost more intimate than what they had been doing 45 minutes ago in her bedroom: Rachel took a shower in Quinn’s bathroom and used Quinn’s shampoo—and then the reason why she had to use her shampoo, why she had to wash her hair, hits Quinn and she blushes so hard and so fast she feels like she’s gotten sudden heatstroke.

“Quinn, honey?” says Judy. “Is it because—well, I know that your father wasn’t very welcoming, but I thought—I’m trying—”

Welcoming. Her dad didn’t welcome her before she started having sex with girls—with one singular perfect girl—and now her mom wants—“What are you talking about?”

“Well.” Judy carefully folds her hands in front of her. It’s almost a parody of a pose she’s seen in church a million times, but her mom seems pretty sincere. “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with Rachel, and I thought it would be nice to get to know her.”

“Get to know her.”

Judy nods.

“I—”

Rachel touches Quinn, hand on arm again, and Quinn stares at it. She almost misses what Rachel says. “I’d love to stay another time, Judy, but tonight I already have plans.”

Plans? What plans? Quinn stares at Rachel. She didn’t say anything about plans. Not that they ever talk about things like their schedule. Mostly Rachel just comes over or calls Quinn whenever she wants her to come to Rachel’s house, and all the other times of the day—all the other days—they don’t really talk. Or text. Or Facebook. Don’t communicate.

At all.

This is getting depressing. “Sorry, mom,” she says, maybe a little bitter. “Rachel can’t stay tonight."

Judy frowns. She actually looks a little disappointed. “Oh. I guess we’ll be having vegan food ourselves, Quinn."

Rachel visibly perks up. “Vegan? Really?”

“Yes, Quinnie’s mentioned that you’re vegan.”

Rachel nods vigorously, head bouncing and ponytail swinging with unnatural vigor. “I am, Mrs. Fabray—”

“Call me Judy, honey—”

“—And so many people don’t really understand or both to accommodate my diet. Thank you so much, even if I can’t stay.”

Oh, thinks Quinn. If Rachel is turning down vegan food, maybe it’s because she really does have other plans, and not just because she was being polite and trying not to laugh in their faces that her mom might possibly think they’re dating. Or maybe that is it, and Rachel doesn’t want to subject herself to bad vegan food and overbearing mothers of people she’s not even dating.

“Well, next time,” Judy says.

“Of course!” Rachel’s ponytail looks like it agrees, too. "We’ll have to schedule sometime so there are no possible conflicts.”

“Yeah," says Quinn. “Sounds good.”

Judy smiles at them. “Well, it was very nice to chat, girls. I’m so glad to have finally met you, Rachel. Quinnie is so quiet about the things that matter."

At that, Quinn wants to scream. What she’s said hits Rachel and Judy at the same time and almost identical looks cross their faces. It’s true, though: Quinn is quiet about the things that are important, because talking about them never turns out well. It can’t. Even if her mother is trying.

It would be funny if it weren’t so tragic.

~~~

Three nights later, Quinn is the one slipping out after a little afternoon delight—and her thighs ache in new and exciting ways from holding Rachel down—when one of Rachel’s dad is waiting for her. Lying in wait, even, only he’s not lying down, he’s standing by the front door dusting in the most ridiculously obvious way ever.

“Quinn! Hello, I’m Hiram, Rachel’s papa. It’s so good to meet you.”

“Hello, sir,” she says, her voice weirdly high and thin. She’s _not_ afraid. She’s not. It’s just that this is Rachel’s father, and she’s been deflowering his baby in all sorts of unimaginable ways, and what if he finds out. No wonder Finn always looked so terrified around her dad.

“Where’s Rachel? I know you two are having a good time upstairs doing whatever it is that teenaged girls do—“

Going at it like rabbits, Quinn thinks, which is not something that teenaged girls do. Other than Santana and Brittany, and now, she and Rachel.

“—But we’ve been so curious about the new person in Rachel’s life. And here you are!”

“I’m not—”

“Papa!” Rachel stumbles down the stairs and nearly crashes into Quinn. “I heard you—I was upstairs—are you interrogating Quinn?! Don’t do that!”

“Rachel, sweetie, we’ve been waiting and waiting for you to introduce us.”

“Yes, well, I was going to,” she mumbles, trailing off unattractively. Fat chance she was going to do anything of the sort, and for someone who prides herself on her acting ability, she sucks at concealing things, lying, whatever you want to call it. Quinn doesn’t want to think about it.

“We’ve been meaning to have you over for dinner, Quinn, now that you and Rachel are spending so much time together. Leroy and I need to know a few things about you, first, though: what do you like to eat? Would you prefer outside on the patio—we just got new furniture—or inside at the formal dining table? It’s important that we make you feel comfortable in this family, Rachel means so much to us—“

Quinn winces. Twice in one week, the parents in her life decide to rub salt in her wounds. At least her being maybe, possibly, probably lesbian didn’t make her mom hyperventilate, much, and at the rate Hiram is going, wedding invitations will be going out soon. Too bad no one told the bride. The _other_ bride.

“I’m sorry, sir, I have to go.” Right now. Before now. Before you pry the addresses of all my second cousins out of me.

“Quinn?” says Rachel.

Quinn stares at Rachel. “I have to go,” she says. Asks, maybe, because there’s something weird in Rachel’s face. They just did this for her mother, Quinn thinks. They agreed: nothing with the parents. They didn’t talk about it—they never talk about it—but they certainly agreed: no dinners, or time spent together, nothing that had anything to do with them together but not naked. Not unless there were people—friends, not family with all their expectations and implications—around to buffer the fact that Quinn can’t speak—or think or move—when Rachel is near her. And to buffer the fact that Rachel can’t stand Quinn, except when they’re naked.

“Quinn has alternative plans tonight, Papa,” Rachel says, hands folded carefully in front of her and face calm. She’s the very image of calm, rather than actually calm, though. It’s something about how she keeps running her thumb across her wrist, and how her jaw twitches.

Quinn glances at Hiram, to see if he’s noticed. He has.

“Yeah, I—I’m sorry,” Quinn says again. She is; he seems nice.

Hiram sighs. “Yes, well, I see. Maybe next time?”

“Papa.” Quinn’s heard that tone before: it’s a warning.

As Quinn slips out the door, she hears Rachel say, “I told you not to do that, Papa.”

Maybe not next time at all.

~~~

“I knew it!”

“Mercedes,” says Quinn.

“I knew it. It started in New York didn’t it? That’s why you stayed back at the hotel: so you could make out with Rachel. I knew it!”

“Mercedes,” Quinn says. But there’s nothing else to say. ‘It’s not like that’ would necessitate telling Mercedes what it is like, and there’s no way Quinn’s going to do that. Choking Rachel is bad enough. Telling other people that she chokes Rachel would be infinitely worse.

But it would be nice if someone else to knew, because Quinn is kind of desperate to talk about it.

“Mercedes. Oh God.”

“Oh, mama.” Mercedes opens her arms and Quinn collapses into them. “Tell Aunty everything.”

Quinn lets out a strangled laugh. Everything is not an option, but maybe she could share something. Like…“I think I’m in love.” She’s not sure if Mercedes will be able to hear her. She almost wants to keep a secret, but clearly that’s not happening.

“Oh, Quinn,” Mercedes says. Yeah, everyone is agreed: Quinn is royally screwed. “Baby, are you sure?”

No. No, she is not sure. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Mercedes sighs and rubs her arm. “She’s a little—”

“Yeah.”

“And she sometimes—”

“Yeah.”

“And that whole thing with Sunshine—”

“I know! I know. It’s—” Stupid. Idiotic. Horrifying. “It’s not something I can control.”

“The heart wants what it wants?”

Quinn laughs a little. Or maybe it’s a sob. She’s not sure, and she’s probably making a huge mess on Mercedes’ shirt. Snot, and tears, and Mercedes murmurs, “It’s okay, we’ll make it all okay. Just let it go.”

A long time later, Mercedes hands her one last tissue. “You know, you’re not very happy for someone in love.”

Quinn burbles that wet combination again and shrugs. “I don’t think—”

Mercedes waits.

Quinn takes a deep breath. And another. This is going to take all her strength, to say it out loud.

Mercedes is patient. She strokes Quinn’s hair, and even without the huge presence—metaphorically, as well as physically—of Beth between them, pressed into Mercedes’ side is a safe place for Quinn. “Missed you,” she says instead.

“Missed you, too, white girl. But we were talking about Rachel.”

Quinn inhales deeply, filling her chest. Diaphragm, Rachel would say. She won’t go away, not even inside Quinn’s head, and that’s just the icing on the cake. She’s obsessed, and Rachel is–

“Rachel’s not really into it. Into me.” There are more tears, but no more sobbing. It’s like her body can’t take it anymore, she’s all wrung out and left piled on the stoop. Wet rags moulding.

And now Rachel is making her morbid, on top of everything else.

“But you go out,” Mercedes says, not letting go.

Quinn nods. “With other people. With you.”

“And you make out—“ Mercedes asks, a little disbelievingly. Sometimes, Quinn can’t believe it, either.

Quinn’s whole body prevaricates.

Mercedes frowns at her, her whole face screaming that Quinn is obviously lying, and badly. “You don’t make out?”

She presses her face into Mercedes’ shoulder. “We more than make out.”

Mercedes gasps and shoves her away. “Oh my God. Ohmygod.” She’s fanning her face, and flapping her hands, and generally freaking out. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. You do? Really?”

Quinn, on the other hand, is proud that for once, she is not freaking out. She just sits there on Mercedes’ bed and waits for her to calm down. It takes a while.

Finally Mercedes sits down again, peering at Quinn as if she’s a stranger. Maybe she is.

“More than making out, like—second base?”

Quinn nods.

“Third?”

Again.

“Home run?”

“And then some,” Quinn says, but as she’s collapsing into Mercedes’ covers as she says it—which, unlike every single other bed she’s been in since New York, do not smell like Rachel—she’s not sure if Mercedes hears her.

“More than a home—” Mercedes yelps. That’s the only way to describe it: it’s more like a dog than a person, high and sharp. Someone just stomped on Mercedes’ foot, her voice is saying, and she wants Quinn to know that this is not okay. Which, yeah, it’s not. “What’s more than a home run?”

Quinn sighs, not really knowing how to explain. “Do you—have you ever—I know Kurt watches porn, right?”

Mercedes nods.

“So, sometimes people do things that are—more than just sex?” It’s totally lame, but she was a virgin a few weeks ago—not counting Puck, which doesn’t count in any of the ways that matter—and so is Mercedes, and how do you talk about this stuff when you’ve both just spent the morning in church. Quinn’s new church—Judy’s new church—isn’t as horrible about celibacy and abstinence as the last one, and Mercedes’s church has a bake sale twice a year for HIV/AIDS patients at Hope Hospice, but still. This is not something that girls like them are supposed to think about, or look at on the Internet, and they’re definitely not supposed to do it.

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

Yeah, “more than sex” is kind of a stupid way of describing it.

“We do thinks that are more than just sex,” Quinn says. How else—she’s not going to say anything explicit to Mercedes. She can barely say stuff like that to Rachel, and she’s having sex—more than sex—with her.

Mercedes looks really confused. “Like—?”

“I’m not telling you that!” Now Quinn’s yelping. This is really not okay. She should change the subject.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mercedes says.

“Well,” says Quinn. “There’s stuff that people do normally.”

Mercedes nods.

“And then there’s stuff that—”

“Oh!” Mercedes’ face clears up. “You mean like, kinky stuff. Whips and chain and leather.”

Quinn tries to bury her head again. Especially since Mercedes is laughing at her.

“Quinn, that’s—I mean, it’s probably not normal, but it’s not that weird. Kurt’s always wearing like, bondage stuff to school, and Eva Longoria even said she liked to be spanked in a magazine a few months ago.”

Quinn’s head shoots up.

“You like to be spanked?” says Mercedes. It clear she’s joking.

Unfortunately, Quinn’s not. “Not me,” she mumbles.

“Oh my god.” Mercedes hits Quinn with a pillow, laughing. “I was joking, you perv!”

Quinn starts laughing, too, out of sheer relief, and picks up her own pillow. “Now you know why I didn’t want to tell you! And I’m not a perv!” Quinn pounds Mercedes several times and laughs again. Maybe it’s not entirely free and unconcerned, but still, it’s nice to laugh. Cleansing.

And then Mercedes says, “You spank your girlfriend; I think that makes you a perv.”

Quinn flinches and a sound escapes her throat. It’s a special sound. A Rachel sound, for when they’re together and there are no clothes and no words and desire flames across both their skins and Rachel is demanding and beautiful and Quinn wants and wants and wants.

“Are you—” Mercedes clears her throat. Quinn must look a mess: a minute ago, they were laughing and having a pillow fight, and now she’s cowering on the bed like she’s about to be beaten. Like Quinn had beaten Rachel, only not, because Rachel’s not here, Mercedes is, and Quinn doesn’t want to be spanked, no matter what Eva Longoria likes. She wants Rachel. Her head hurts.

“Are you okay?” Mercedes rubs her shoulder, tugs a little to get Quinn to cuddle again. Quinn doesn’t move. Maybe if she doesn’t move, it won’t hurt anymore.

But if she doesn’t move, she can’t snuggle up with Mercedes and tell her everything. Now that’s started, she actually does feel a little better, in between wanting to die. “I’m such a schizo because of her. I hate it,” she says instead.

“It’ll be all right.”

“You don’t know that.” Quinn rolls over and looks up at her. “You don’t even believe that.”

“I do so! I know Rachel as well as anyone—”

Quinn snorts.

“—As well as anyone not spanking her—and I think you’re overreacting. She likes you, Quinn. Everybody likes you.” Quinn ignores the hint of bitterness; it’s a thing, and it’s always been there between them, but there’s no point in obsessing about it. Ignoring the vagaries of nature and plastic surgery has worked great so far, and their friendship is solid.

She picks at the threads on the quilt. “I know she likes me, but it’s not me she likes.”

Mercedes flops over next to her. “What does that even mean?”

“You know what it means. Everybody likes me, because I’m—I’m a pin up. The head cheerleader, blonde, pretty. Untouchable.”

Mercedes wrinkles her nose, because she knows what’s coming next, and she really doesn’t like thinking it. Neither does Quinn.

“I’m a fantasy. Probably half the school has gotten off thinking about me, but I’m not—that’s not me. I’m not—”

“Except that you are,” Mercedes says softly, just whispering. “If you guys are doing that stuff.”

Quinn stares at her.

Mercedes shrugs. “I know what you’re talking about. I mean, I don’t know at all, but I can see it. And you’ve said it before. People want the idea of you, the fantasy. But she’s not just thinking about fantasy you, she’s doing it with real you. More than once?”

Quinn nods.

“So she must really like you. Rachel wouldn’t sleep with someone she didn’t really like.”

“Yeah, but,” Quinn says. She has no idea how to explain. “It’s like—it’s more than sex but that’s all it is.”

Mercedes screws up her face. “Booty calls? Friends with benefits?”

“Except that we’re not really friends,” Quinn protests. That’s the problem, right here: they’re in Glee together, and they have sex, and they dated the same guy. Other than that, there’s nothing.

“Yes, you are,” Mercedes says, as if that’s the end of that.

Quinn sighs. “I think she and Finn are dating again.”

“She wouldn’t. We all remember what happened at Nationals.”

Quinn shrugs. “He’s an idiot and a lump of—”

“Manboob.” Mercedes interjects.

Quinn snorts. “Have you been hanging out with Santana?”

“I don’t have to hang with her to know she’s right.”

“I don’t know.” Quinn tries to breath deeply and not get angry. Or sad. “He’s a good guy.”

Now it’s Mercedes’ turn to wave a dismissive hand and offer a dismissive sound. “He’s an idiot, he has no ambition, and he’s not that cute, either.”

Quinn shrugs. “At least he’s not Jesse.”

“Because he hasn’t thrown eggs at anyone?” Mercedes give a look. Quinn’s missed that look, now that she doesn’t live with Mercedes anymore.

“Well—” says Quinn.

“See! And why are you arguing for him, anyway? She’s your girl.”

“No, she’s not.” Unfortunately.

~~~

“Quinn,” Rachel says, one day after they finish. She’s glistening in the late afternoon sunshine, sprawled across the pillows—reclining like a Greek statue, like a Roman goddess, like all of Quinn’s fantasies—and idly playing with the latest addition to their dalliances.

Two months ago, Quinn would never have known how to abbreviate the word vibrator; now she knows that Rachel is holding a pair of clamps and she knows what to do with them. Several things, even. The knowledge unfurls in her chest, spreading warmly and growing, like a living thing. Like Harry’s monster, except not from jealousy: from knowledge. Knowing what to do with toys, and with girls who husk words like “faster, harder, _more._ ” Quinn knows things that she never even knew she didn’t know before.

“You really liked spanking me, didn’t you? You were pretty into that, I remember.” Rachel’s head is tilted, her eyes trusting and clear. She’s just…curious. That’s all.

It’s weird.

“Um,” Quinn says.

“I’ve just becoming increasingly aware that you don’t seem to fully enjoy our encounters, that you aren’t getting as much out of our time together as I do."

“I like it,” Quinn protests.

Rachel chuckles. “I don’t doubt that. I can’t imagine you doing anything you wasn’t exactly what you wanted to do. But you just don’t seem to be as into it as I am. It feels increasingly asymmetric.”

But it’s less asymmetric now, Quinn wants to say. Now that Quinn usually comes herself, and now that Rachel keeps asking Quinn to take off some clothes. That’s her first thought.

Her second thought is that only Rachel would use that word in a conversation about sex. Even if it does describe things fairly well: they are not coming from the same place at all. It’s obvious that they want different things, have different expectations, even that they have fundamentally different views of what sex is, and who should be having it. “People in love” is Quinn’s answer. Rachel’s version is more like “anyone who has an itch they need scratched.” That’s pretty asymmetric.

Quinn says, “I’m into it,” but even she can hear how unenthusiastic she sounds. The thing is, she is into it. She’s into Rachel like nothing else, and even her mother’s continual pursuit of an elusive dinner party with Rachel as the guest of honor can’t contain her enthusiasm to see Rachel. To taste Rachel. To make Rachel come.

And also to want to sit on a picnic blanket and watch the stars come out.

She wants that, too. Sometimes she wants that more than the other stuff.

“And restraining me,” Rachel says, “holding my wrists. We could do more of that. I have an appropriate headboard.” Rachel smirks. “You definitely liked that.”

Well, yes, Quinn did like that. She loves anything that involves Rachel not allowed to control their encounters. Anything that lets Quinn pretend they’re in college, or even after that, and they have a real relationship, equals who have tons of hot sex and eat dinner and breakfast together and do the dishes. People who have a life, together.

“Or I can go down on you.”

Quinn chokes on her spit. Outright coughing, doubled over and can’t breath. Rachel laughs a little, and rubs her back. Like that’s supposed to help Quinn breath, and of course it doesn’t. Her eyes are swimming with images of her legs spread, just like Rachel’s have been so many times, and Rachel between them looking up with those dark eyes, focused on nothing but Quinn. It’s the eyes that Quinn wants, Rachel looking into her eyes. Rachel’s tongue in unhygienic places—and now Quinn’s going to have to go home and shower and find new products and maybe ask people how they make sure they smell good, because Rachel always smells amazing and tastes even better and Quinn doesn’t want to not end up returning the favor because she tastes so bad that Rachel will be totally turned off afterward.

Rachel licking her down there would be nice, but so would Rachel kissing her.

When she does recover a little breath, Rachel says, “You like that idea, huh?”

Quinn glares at her.

“I was thinking,” and here, Rachel rolls over and rummages in her bedside table. Quinn knows that table. It’s the world’s best equipped treasure chest of toys. There are things in there Quinn still can’t identify, and she’s been spending a lot of time online these days, browsing illicit websites. She had to download an anonymizer to deal with all of it.

“I was thinking,” Rachel says, holding up a pair of panties and a dildo, “that we could try this. And if you want to, you could tie me up while you fuck me.”

Oh. Because the panties aren’t panties, Quinn realizes as Rachel slides the dildo into a hole she hadn’t noticed. You could—she could—a person could wear those and thrust and it would be just like having a penis. Sort of. Without the possibility of getting pregnant. And with less splooge.

“You want me to—” Quinn says.

Rachel nods enthusiastically, and crawls across the bed.

“Now?!” Quinn says. She thought they were done for the afternoon. This was supposed to be over today, and Quinn could go home and showed and curl up with a comforting book and a cup of tea and ignore her supportive hovering mother and get lost in someone else’s happy ending. That was her plan, gosh darn it, and now Rachel is ruining things.

“You want us to do that, now?”

"Why not now? You can’t possibly be completely satisfied right now.”

Quinn says slowly, “But you are.”

“Of course I’m satisfied. I’m always satisfied lately, sometimes to the point of passing out,” Rachel says cheerfully.

Quinn can’t help preen a little at that ego boost. She satisfies Rachel Berry! Take that, world! It might possibly be Quinn’s proudest accomplishment to date.

“So?”

“I’m not—can’t we just—”

“Yes?” Rachel’s eyes light up.

“Can we— ” Quinn isn’t entirely sure she’s going to be able to ask for what she wants. It’s a little out of Rachel’s wheelhouse. “Can we just—”

Rachel slides down the bed and presses the panties—the dildo holder—and the plastic penis into Quinn’s hands. Dildo. Strap-on. What is she supposed to call it? She looks up, surveying Rachel’s face. She’s expectant, eager. She looks a little like a puppy who just wants to please. So Quinn goes for it.

Their lips meet. It’s sloppier than Quinn imagined, but Rachel’s mouth is smaller than any of the boys she’s dated, and her lips are thinner, or maybe just more agile. Quinn’s head swims, and her hand reaches up without her permission to wrap in Rachel’s hair. Unfortunately, it’s the hand that was holding the strap-on thing, and Rachel breaks away laughing.

Quinn cringes, but Rachel doesn’t seem to notice. “You seriously need more foreplay? We’ve been at this for an hour already!”

Rachel thinks—

Rachel grabs Quinn’s leg and tries to force it through the leg hole, and then glances up. “Oops! Forgot to take off the ones you’re already wearing!” She reaches up, and Quinn scrambles backwards.

Rachel frowns. “Quinn?”

“I’m—I’m not—are we really—I don’t think—”

“Quinn,” Rachel says, tugging on Quinn’s underwear, “I know you have issues with you body—although I have no idea why, since you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, clothed or unclothed—but it’ll be much better without the extra layer.”

“I don’t—” Quinn says again, twisting away from Rachel. Twisting away, and falling off the bed. Awesome. That’s just wonderful, she thinks, staring down at the plush beige pile.

Rachel giggles.

Yep. Awesome times a million, not to mention incredibly suave. At least Rachel’s stopped pulling at her underwear. Quinn stares up at her, still laughing on the bed.

“C’mon, Quinn. Get back up here. I’m horny.”

Isn’t she always, Quinn thinks, and looks at the whole contraption one more time. She takes a deep breath, and then grabs it and storms away to the bathroom.

“Quinn!” Rachel protests. “It’s not that complicated!”

Actually, it’s not complicated, it’s just weird, and strange, and takes quite a few tugs to make it sit right. To make the thing sticking out from between her legs to sit right. Stand right. Look right, not that she’s seen that many, and all her recent forays in learning new information have focused on people who do not have one of these, naturally or unnaturally.

Because that’s how it feels: unnatural. And not just because she’s a woman, and wants to have sex with a woman. It’s more that it can’t stop looking at it.

It’s pink.

Of course it is. She reaches down and touches it. It doesn’t feel quite like the other one Rachel has; the material is similar enough, but that one has all sorts of bumps and ridges and this one doesn’t, it just curves out smoothly and has a weird jut at the end. It looks like a crooked finger, as if her penis were beckoning someone over. Which—understanding flashes through Quinn. Rachel likes when she curls her fingers, and the plastic is built to do that from the start, so that makes sense. She’s not sure what else she’s supposed to do, though, how she’s supposed to move, or if she’s even supposed to be on top, or is Rachel going to take control? Probably. She usually knows what she wants and has no problem letting Quinn know what to do.

Quinn huffs. The whole thing is ridiculous.

She reaches for the bathroom door, and then catches sight of herself. The pink thing is jumping up and down, like it’s waving to an audience, but more than that, Quinn is still wearing her shirt. Should she take it off? Sometimes Rachel likes to see her chest, but she usually just ignores when Quinn leaves her shirt on—or her pants, or her underwear, or her shoes.

Okay. Stop. That way lies madness.

The shirt.

That’s all she’s going to think about right now—this minute, this shirt, this time.

The rest can wait, at least until Quinn is safely back in her own bedroom with the door locked and the music loud enough to muffle whatever tears stupid Rachel’s stupid ideas bring on this time. The shirt is going to—she reaches for the hem and pulls up a little, but the pink penis is just so distracting, and the more she raises her shirt, the more obvious it is that she’s wearing this thing. Decision made: shirt stays on. And next time, she’s going to wear one with a longer hemline. Maybe a dress. God knows what Rachel’s going to make her put on next.

“Are you ready?” Rachel says, and opens the door.

Quinn jumps. By now, she should be used to Rachel’s absolute lack of any sense of privacy, but usually it’s about Rachel not wanting any privacy for herself, not pushing herself into Quinn’s space.

Rachel blinks, and gets that dazed look. She staring at Quinn, between her legs—she’s staring at the penis. Not at Quinn. At the penis, and then she reaches for it.

Quinn leaps backwards. “No!”

“Did you fit the little nub right? It’s there so you can fully experience everything, so that it’s completely mutually pleasurable.”

The little nub? No, she did not. She didn’t even know there was a nub for anything, and she’s definitely not going to let Rachel go poking around down there right now. Not while she’s wearing this stupid contraption.

Whatever happened to the idea of Rachel going down on her? That was a nice one. That she could have handled. Maybe. Not like this, where she has no idea what she’s doing, or what she’s supposed to do, or where she’s even going to put this thing.

Rachel grabs the penis and pulls.

Quinn shrieks.

It’s weird, being led around by a penis that isn’t even attached, and for a moment it almost feels like—except that’s a dumb idea. Transference or something, because she can’t actually feel anything, even when Rachel slides her whole hand up and down the shaft and then licks her hand and tries it again. Quinn moans, and Rachel isn’t even touching her. Not the real her. But whatever Rachel is doing, it’s making her feel. It’s like she can feel the plastic. Like it’s really part of her, growing out from between her legs, like she’s really that hard for Rachel, she wants to be inside her, as close as two people can get. That’s what it feels like.

Rachel grins, and then finishes tugging Quinn, and the penis, over to the bed. This time, instead of licking her hand, she runs her fingers between her legs and grabs the penis again. She’s sort of slathering herself all over it, and Quinn is mesmerized. Rachel’s hands are beautiful; she’s always thought so. And now they’re doing something so wicked, so dirty, Quinn’s a little dizzy with confusion and lust. Rachel guides Quinn closer, and she inches forward on her knees as Rachel lays back, still smoothing her fingers over the plastic, over and over and over again.

Suddenly the plastic is pressed against Rachel. Rachel slides the tip up and down her slit, and Quinn has to move her hips to follow Rachel’s hand; it’s a weird feeling, slipping against Rachel the way she is. Without warning, Rachel shoves the whole thing in, and Quinn automatically pushes her hips forward. She has no idea where that came from.

She wishes she’d had time to check Google or something, or that she and Rachel were the type to talk about what was going to happen before it did, but Rachel just says, “More. All the way, Quinn.”

Quinn has no idea how far in she is, so she has no idea what all the way might consist of. With the other one, the black one, she could push it so far in Rachel’s body stopped it from going any further. Maybe she could do the same thing here, so she pulls out a little and thrusts back in again. Rachel spreads her legs more, slides a hand up her stomach and pulls on her own nipple. “That’s so good, you’re fucking me so deep,” she says, but she doesn’t sound as far gone as she usually does. She almost sounds like she’s coaching Quinn through this.

Quinn does not need coaching.

She also does not need a penis, but if anyone is intimately acquainted with the idea that we can’t always get we want, it’s Quinn. If Rachel wants her to have a penis, she’s going to have a penis. For a few minutes, anyway.

But she doesn’t need Rachel giving orders here.

“Shut up,” she says, and yanks Rachel’s hands above her head. Rachel’s legs might go on forever, but her torso is weirdly short, and Quinn’s a lot taller, but even stretching Rachel’s arms as far up as they go—pulling her taut and probably making her shoulders ache—Quinn still has enough leverage that she can maneuver her hips.

How, exactly, she’s supposed to be moving them is still a little bit of a mystery, but at least Rachel’s eyes have gone dark again, and she’s doing that panting thing that happens when she’s really into it. Because she’s clearly more into it now than she was before.

Maybe because Quinn really did go a little deeper when she yanked them both up. So she tries it again, thrusting into Rachel.

Rachel moans.

Quinn knows that moan. She’s heard it before. More than once.

But before today, she’s only heard for the belt. Which Quinn is not holding at the moment. It’s somewhere else, she can’t even see it, and Rachel is moaning.

For a pink plastic penis.

Quinn grits her teeth and thrusts her hips a little harder.

~~~

"So what do you want to do?” Rachel is laying on her side, tracing her fingers over the edge of the harness panties thing that Quinn is wearing. Quinn shivers. The penis is still there, still attached and jutting between them.

Quinn shrugs. She likes what they do, sort of. Obviously she likes it, because she gets off, even if it’s not as hard or as many times as Rachel, usually. But it’s not the same thing, and Rachel seems to have figured it out, now.

“Haven’t you ever thought about it before?”

What I like to do in bed, by Quinn Fabray, aged 16 1/2. Quinn shakes her head rather than burst into laughter.

Rachel frowns. “That’s unusual. Most teenagers are in a state of high excitement and have a strong impulse to explore their own desires. You’ve really never thought about what you might enjoy or want to try during sex?”

Quinn shrugs again, and wonders what’s wrong with her. She’s clearly the most boring person in the world, because all she wants to do is touch Rachel gently, along her ribs and maybe the sides of her breasts and kiss her. She’s done all that, and it’s still all she wants to do.

She has no interest in belts or bondage or strap-ons or anything like that. She wants to kiss Rachel, and hold her hand, and go out for fries—fried in vegetable oil, 100% canola—at Jack’s Burger Shack out at the lake. She wants to press her body against Rachel’s and know that Rachel is as scared and eager and excited as she is. Necking in the movie theater sounds pretty daring, and if they combined it with a little second base that’d even be kind of fun. Her speed. Maybe Quinn could handle that, especially if it included Rachel looking up at her with those glassy eyes she gets when she’s on the edge, desperate and not thinking anymore.

The look she gets when she’s fantasizing about Quinn while holding a belt. The look she gets when Quinn is actually holding the belt.

But no, Rachel wants a strap on and nipple clamps, and it doesn’t matter if it’s real Quinn or pretend Quinn, as long as she gets off. Rachel doesn’t want to date, she doesn’t want to kiss, she probably doesn’t even really want to touch Quinn.

She definitely doesn’t want to snuggle up and watch the fireworks on the Fourth of July.

~~~

Her knees hurt. Her shoulders hurt. Her tongue hurts, and that’s never happened before.

Possibly someone with Rachel’s oral workout routine might not have an aching tongue, but Quinn’s not Rachel, and as much as she likes—loves— _adores_ —the taste of Rachel straight from the source, her tongue hurts. This is the first time she’s tried this, and the Google tips were not as helpful as she’d hoped. Her fingers are usually a lot faster and more accurate, because Rachel doesn’t seem to be coming, just trembling and clenching and gushing and moaning and saying her name—she keeps saying “Quinn, please,” over and over and over again.

Just like the first time.

The time when when she didn’t actually know that Quinn was there.

The time when she was hallucinating Quinn because the belt had restricted her airflow so much she couldn’t think clearly. Quinn jerks her head up and stares at Rachel’s face. It’s still a more or less normal color: no blue lips, no purple tinge anywhere near her cheeks or ears or anything that indicates asphyxia. Except even though Quinn’s stopped licking her, Rachel is still panting “Quinn, please, please Quinn,” as if she was still going at it. Probably because the belt’s still tight around Rachel’s neck.

Her jaw aches.

Suddenly, it’s too much. Everything hurts, and even the sight of Rachel isn’t enough to hold back the agony. Rachel looks as happy as she’s ever been, and it’s just not enough any more.

Quinn sighs, and looks down at Rachel’s vulva, spread out in front of her. _For_ her, only not.

Maybe she should be calling it a pussy, or something even more vulgar, because that’s all this is. A vulgar encounter between two people who don’t have enough of a connection to be anything more than friends with benefits. Fuck buddies. She feels like Rachel’s buddy—more than an acquaintance, less than a friend.

The tears are dripping down her cheeks, but Rachel hasn’t opened her eyes yet. Quinn takes a deep breath, inhaling Rachel’s scent one more time.

This is it.

This is the last time.

She lets go of the belt, and opens her mouth.

She can’t help but spread little kisses along Rachel’s thighs, her lips, she can’t not nuzzle her gently. It’s not fair, but it’s all she’s got.

Above her, Rachel breathes, “Quinn,” and shudders again.

Quinn doesn’t know how long she lingers, lapping at the weird mix of Rachel and her own tears, but eventually, she has to stop. Her legs are completely cramped and rigid, her head is throbbing. Rachel has stopped mumbling.

It takes Quinn a long time to move. She’s not sure how much time has passed, but the shadows are a lot deeper when she finally reaches over and pulls her quilt across Rachel’s body, covering her. Quinn’s great-grandmother made that quilt when she was just a baby and it’s been on her bed for years. It never moved from its place when she was gone; it was one of the things she missed most. Rachel snuffles a little and curls into the quilt, snuggling into Quinn’s pillows. She looks peaceful, happy. Satisfied.

She should be.

“I can’t do this anymore.” It’s a whisper, and part of her hopes that Rachel doesn’t hear her, doesn’t ever acknowledge why she’s said even if she does hear. Part of her hopes that things keep going, that she gets to keep seeing Rachel undone and beautiful and free.

It’s not a very big part of her, though. The biggest part just hurts.

“What,” Rachel says. It’s oddly loud in the room, and Rachel’s looking at her like Quinn’s just said something in a foreign language and expected her to understand.

Quinn breathes, and imagines the future. A woman, maybe, someday, who likes sharing milkshakes—soy shakes?—and long walks in the park holding hands. She can have that. She’s worth that. “I’m not going to do this again.” It’s a tiny bit stronger, a tiny bit louder, but Rachel isn’t moving, or breathing, now that Quinn looks at her.

“Why not?”

“I just—I’m not—this isn’t—”

Rachel scrambles on to her knees and reaches out to touch Quinn. She doesn’t make contact, though. “I don’t understand. I thought you liked—”

I do, Quinn thinks. I like this. I love you. “I can’t hurt you anymore, Rachel,” is what she says.

“You’re not hurting me. I told you, it’s safe, I’ve been doing it for a long time.”

“I’m not going to do it again.”

“But you said you would! You said you wouldn’t give me the belt back, that I had to come to you. You wanted that, Quinn, you told me that.”

Quinn stands up. She feels like she’s moving through water, or molasses, or a hurricane as she takes the belt and holds it one last time. Twists it in her hands, lets it slither across her skin.

“Take it,” she says, and drops it on the floor.

~~~

Rachel is panting when she finds Quinn in the back yard. She’s dressed again, in Quinn’s sweats and a t-shirt, which is definitely not in what she was wearing earlier, and she still reeks of sex. Of what they were doing. She obviously didn’t take any time to shower. The belt is nowhere to be seen. Not that Quinn would have expected her to carry it all the way down the stairs to confront her.

“Quinn, you can’t just walk out on me like that!”

Quinn tries to channel calm. Placidness. An aura of invincibility. It’s probably not working for Rachel, and it’s definitely not working for Quinn.

Rachel tracks Quinn staring at her hands.

“I threw it away,” Rachel says. “I don’t want—If you didn’t want—why didn’t you say anything? If you don’t want to do it, then I don’t want to do it with you.”

“That’s not what you said before.”

“Quinn, that was—I was—”

“What if I don’t want any of it?” Quinn blurts.

Rachel hesitates, her face crumbling a little. “What do you want?”

Quinn shrugs.

“You don’t like the belt,” Rachel says slowly.

“I hate the belt. But it’s not just that. I don’t want—”

Suddenly, Rachel looks like she’s about to cry. “Was there anything we did that you liked?” There are some hiccoughs; Quinn’s not sure if it’s fake or real, but Rachel looks pretty unhappy.

Quinn is too immersed in her own agony to care much about Rachel being upset she called their arrangement off. She liked everything they did, sort of, but mostly she liked the in-between things. Rachel’s laugh, and her sighs, and the way her skin shone with sweat. “I like the way you smell,” she says, and blushes hard. She shouldn’t even be engaging with Rachel right now; she just knows she’s going to get talked into doing everything again, and school’s starting, and she’s probably going to have to see Rachel with Finn again, and—

Rachel’s faces changes so quickly Quinn’s surprised she doesn’t have emotional whiplash, but that’s pretty average for Rachel. She stares intently at Quinn. “I can work with that. What else?”

“Rachel, this isn’t just about the—the sex. Or the belt. It’s about more than just what we do to each other. What I do to you.”

“I told you I thought we were getting too asymmetric!” Rachel blurts. “I told you! I want to fuck you just as much as—“

Quinn flinches. She scrunches back into the corner of the bench, trying to get away from Rachel. That’s what it feels like, anyway, like she has to get away from her at any cost, as far away as possible.

Rachel crumples again. “You don’t want me to touch you?”

“I want that, just not—”

“You don’t want—” Something on Quinn’s face must show, because Rachel changes track midway through her sentence. “You don’t like that word?” She sounds astounded.

Quinn can’t quite meet Rachel’s eyes.

“Quinn, I had no idea. I didn’t realize. I’m so sorry.”

Quinn sighs. “It’s not about the word.” And it’s not, really.

Rachel frowns. “I don’t understand.”

Of course she doesn’t.

“It’s about—how we relate to each other,” Quinn says slowly.

“I told you, I want to touch you, I want to go down on you—“

“It’s not about the sex!” Quinn shouts.

Rachel’s whole body pauses, just for an instant, and then she hesitantly moves toward the other end of the bench. She perches there, barely sitting on it. “Then what is it about?”

Quinn rubs her face.

Rachel swallows and Quinn watches her throat contract. It’s so distracting she almost misses Rachel’s whispered words. “I though—I didn’t want you to—your mom—”

“What does my mom have to do with anything?”

Rachel slumps. “It’s hard to come out in Ohio. And lots of families aren’t accepting.”

Quinn stares at her.

“I don’t want to cause any problems—”

“With my mom?”

“With you. With your sense of identity.”

“You didn’t want me to…what?”

“Get scared. Run. You seemed so eager to start—”

“I was scared you’d kill yourself!”

“Oh.” Rachel blinks.

“I just—Rachel, I was terrified.” Quinn is shaking, remember that day in New York. No matter how many times she’s done it, it’s never gotten any less scary. She’s never been anything less than terrified that she’d kill Rachel. She likes everything else they do, almost everything else gets her soaking wet, but choking Rachel doesn’t do anything for Quinn.

Rachel purses her lips. “And now?”

“Now I can’t do that anymore.”

Rachel nods. “I told you. I threw it away.”

“Whatever,” Quinn says.

“What about—everything else?”

“What else?”

Rachel slaps her hand on the bench arm; it’s a lot less effective than a foot stomp, but she’s sitting down. Quinn’t not being intentionally dense, but she has no idea what Rachel’s getting at. Rachel, however, practically has steam coming out of her ears, so whatever it is, it must be big.

“You don’t want to have any more sex?” she demands.

Quinn blinks. “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”

“Of course it’s a possibility,” Rachel blurts. “Whatever you want.”

Whatever she wants. She tried that already, and Rachel wasn’t too excited about it. But she can’t say that. Rachel takes her silence as some sort of rejection and gets up.

“I don’t want you to go,” Quinn says. She can’t say the rest, but she can say that much.

“Then I’ll stay,” Rachel says, and sits down again. She’s closer, this time.

Quinn closes her eyes and swallows against the lump in her throat that’s been there since upstairs. “I want—I want to—” It’s not going to come out.

“Anything, Quinn,” Rachel breathes.

Quinn snorts. “I have no idea how you think this is going to work,” she mumbles.

“We’ll just have to figure it out together.”

Quinn frowns. "You want to figure out how we can make this work.”

“Yes.” It’s emphatic, accompanied by a lot of nodding.

“Make what work?”

“Us,” Rachel says.

“Us,” Quinn repeats.

“Yes,” Rachel says, with a lot more nodding. “Whatever you want.”

“What I want in bed?” Quinn clarifies.

“In bed, out of bed, for dinner,” Rachel confirms. “My dads are still pestering me pretty much every night about having you over for dinner.”

“You told your dad not to talk to me,” Quinn says.

“I told my papa not to bother you if you weren’t ready to meet them,” Rachel objects, “and clearly you weren’t. You were practically hyperventilating.”

“You told my mom you had plans first! I thought you didn’t want to have dinner with me.”

“I did have plans,” Rachel says, apologetically. “My aunt Susan was in town and we had to take her out for dinner. I wanted more than anything to have dinner with you. I always want to spend time with you.”

“Even if we don’t—” Quinn says.

“Sex is not the only way that we interact.”

She could have fooled Quinn.

Rachel sighs. “I wasn’t sure how—I didn’t think you—”

“What?” Quinn spits.

“You’re so closed, Quinn,” Rachel says. “It’s hard to get to know you, what you want. What you like. Your mom is right: you hold yourself so tightly to your chest. I didn’t want to push.”

The rest of that sentence is too hard to deal with, so Quinn focuses on the part that she can grab on to. “It’s hard to know what I like.”

Rachel looks incredibly unhappy again. “I resorted to outright asking, because you kept not giving me any hints about what you might like. Did you even like any of it?”

“Any of—“

“What we did. When we were together.”

“The sex?” Quinn asks.

Rachel nods.

Quinn has no idea how to answer that.

“Do you even know what you like, Quinn?” Rachel asks softly.

Not that she’s asked, no. Quinn does not know, precisely, what she likes.

“Do you want to find out? With me?”

“Not just sex,” Quinn says.

Rachel nods.

“With you,” Quinn says. “What I like.”

Rachel nods again.

“What I want. What turns me on. But not just sex.”

Rachel’s head is bouncing so vigorously Quinn is a little worried she might hurt herself.

Quinn is fairly sure she knows some of what she wants, but…. “What if I want to go slow?”

Rachel smiles, bright and happy. “That’s okay. I never want to push you into anything you don’t want to do.”

Quinn’s a little skeptical. That’s not quite how she remembers the last few months.

“Quinn, I just want to be with you.” Rachel’s face is so earnest, so open. Quinn almost believes her.

Quinn squirms; there’s one last thing. She doesn’t want to say it and she tries to hold it back, but the words force themselves out anyway. “What if it’s boring?” What if I’m boring, is what she’s really thinking, but she’s not going to say that to Rachel Gold Star Berry, who may be many things but boring is not one of them. Rachel could never be boring. Quinn’s almost sure she’s not being biased about that one.

“It won’t be boring,” Rachel says, as if Quinn’s fear is the most ridiculous thing in the world. “It’s us. We could never be boring together.”

“You don’t know that,” she mutters.

Rachel just looks at her, utter conviction on her face.

“And you’re okay with me not choking you anymore.” It’s not quite a question. If Rachel demanded it she’d give in because she’s never been able to say no to Rachel, not when it comes to this, not when it comes to most things, but she wouldn’t like it. At all. She hopes Rachel never asks again.

Rachel smiles again, a small, intimate one that’s nothing like the big blaring smiles she usually offers. It’s so intimate Quinn almost can’t look at her, and her stomach flips. In a good way.

“We’ll figure it out together, as slow as you want,” Rachel says softly. “It’ll be fun."

She sounds so sure, so confident, all Quinn can do is smile back. Hers is smaller and more hesitant because she doesn’t know how serious Rachel is, how serious she can handle Rachel being, but it’s something. It’s better than before, anyway.

“Okay,” says Quinn. “ Okay. Let’s do it.”

Rachel reaches for her hand. Quinn’s never been so excited in her entire life.

THE END


End file.
